"Mr. _Jones_!" they repeated.
"I caught him smugglin'" said William proudly. "I caught him smugglin'
beer by the sea an' he was drinking those two bottles he'd smuggled
an' he had thousands an' _thousands_ of cigars all over him, an' I
caught him, an' he's a smuggler an' I brought him up here with my gun.
He's a smuggler an' I took him prisoner."
Mr. Jones, red, and angry, his hair awry, glared through the
wickerwork of his basket. He moistened his lips. "This is an outrage,"
he spluttered.
Horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles.
"He was drinkin' 'em by the sea," said William.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they chorused again.
He flung off his wastepaper basket and turned upon the proprietress of
the establishment who stood by the door.
"I will not brook such treatment," he stammered in fury. "I leave your
roof to-night. I am outraged--humiliated. I--I disdain to explain.
I--leave your roof to-night."
"Mr. _Jones_!" they said once more.
[Illustration: "I CAUGHT HIM SMUGGLING," WILLIAM EXPLAINED PROUDLY.
"HE HAD THOUSANDS AN' THOUSANDS OF CIGARS AND THAT BEER!"]
Mr. Jones, still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at
William on his way.
"You _wicked_ boy! You wicked little, _untruthful_ boy," he said.
William looked after him. "He's my prisoner an' they've let him go,"
he said aggrievedly.
Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room. Mr. Brown sat
miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.
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