"It's all right, little boy," he said soothingly, "quite all right.
I'm--er--your friend. Don't--ah--get annoyed, little boy.
Don't--ah--get annoyed. Won't you put your gun down, little man? Won't
you let me carry it for you?"
William walked behind, still pointing his pop-gun.
"I've took you prisoner for smugglin'," he repeated doggedly. "I'm
takin' you home. You're my prisoner. I've took you."
They met no one on the road, though Mr. Percival Jones threw longing
glances around, ready to appeal to any passer-by for rescue. He was
afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor
to murder. He saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened
up the walk and up the stairs. The drawing-room door was open. There
was help and assistance, there was protection against this strange
persecution. He entered, followed closely by William. It was about the
time he had promised to read his "little effort" on the Coming of
Spring to his circle of admirers. A group of elderly ladies sat round
the fire awaiting him. Ethel was writing. They turned as he entered
and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up. It was that gasp
that called him to a realisation of the fact that he was wearing a
wastepaper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur
rug was tied round his arms.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they gasped.
He gave a wrench to his shoulders and the rug fell to the floor,
revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm.
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