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And that was the occasion Betty took herself full of nervous starts and mysterious recourse to the telephone behind locked doors to remind him cruelly that he was getting flabby from staying too much in the house and to recommend a long walk for his good. It was plain that she would stick at nothing to get her brother out of the way, and Pudge was cut to the heart.
You're chaperoning me, I hope you realize! I'm rather difficile, too. Genevieve, Pudge is outside; he'll take you out and buy you something cold. I took him to lunch today. It was disgraceful! Except for a frightful-looking mess called German Pot Roast With Carrots and Noodles Sixty, he ate nothing but melon, lemon-meringue pie, and pineapple special. I was absolutely ashamed!
Pudge walked with as much dignity as he could muster in the direction of the public road. He could see nothing of Mrs. Remington in either direction; now and then a private motor whizzed by, but there was no other house near enough to suggest a possibility of calling for help. He concealed himself in a group of black locusts and waited.
Where's that pitch-pipe? We'n gated wrang twice o' ready! Come in, wi' tho'! 'By th' mass, said Dick, dartin' back; 'I'd forgetten o' about it. I'se never seen through this job, to my deein' day. An' off he ran, an' laft owd Pudge sit upo' th' organ, grinnin' at him.... That's a nice do, isn't it, Nanny?" "Eh," said the old woman, "I never yerd sich a tale i' my life.
It was only a step, however, and Tom was holding the house-door open, letting a ruddy light stream out, and with it a savory smell of supper. Tom halloed, and that blue-eyed pudge of a Catty pounded on the window with her fat little fist. How hot the fire glowed! Somehow all Christmas seemed waiting in there. It was time to hurry along.
The expectation is that Schliemann will evolve into a large oval satrap, grow beautifully boastful and sublimely reminiscent, representing his Ward in the Common Council until pudge plus prunes him off in his prime. But this time the reader is wrong: Schliemann was tall, slender and reserved, also taciturn. Groceries were not the goal.
This wordless interchange went on for a few moments, and then a hand, a woman's hand O fair, imprisoned ladies of all time! appeared cautiously at the open shutter, waved and pointed. It pointed toward the buckeye tree. Pudge threw a stone in that direction and sauntered after it, pitching and throwing.
"You stop that it ain't so!" protested the outraged Pudge, his utterance throttled down somewhat by the chocolate cream in his mouth. "Spying on people! And, besides, you've been stuffing yourself with candy again! You're ruining your stomach with that sticky sweet stuff you're headed straight for a candy-fiend's grave. Now, you go upstairs and to bed!"
Everybody was against him. He would sit here awhile and think it over. Perhaps he could figure out some way of breaking through the conspiracy. Then Mr. Martin Jaffry drove up to the curb and he had to move his legs. Mr. Jaffry said, "Hello, Pudge," too. It was all deeply annoying.
In about half an hour he heard a car coming from the house with the mansard roof, and saw that it held three occupants, two men and a woman. The men he recognized, and he was certain that the woman, though she was well bundled up, was not E. Eliot. The motor turned away from the town and disappeared in the opposite direction. Pudge surmised that Mike was making his getaway.
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