"Peggy, you put the basket over his head an' pin his arms down--case he struggles, an' tie the skin wot I shot round him, case he struggles."
Peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed. Their victim made no protest. He seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream. The only thing of which he was conscious was the dimly descried weapon that William held out at him in the darkness. He was hardly aware of the wastepaper basket thrust over his head. He watched William anxiously through the basket-work.
"Be careful," he murmured. "Be careful, boy!"
He hardly felt the skin which was fastened tightly round his unresisting form by Peggy, the tail tied to one front paw. Unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm.
Then came the irate summons of Peggy's nurse through the dusk.
"Oh, William," she said panting with excitement, "I don't want to leave you. Oh, William, he might _kill_ you!"
"You go on. I'm all right," he said with conscious valour. "He can't do nothin' 'cause I've got a gun an' I can shoot him dead,"--Mr. Percival Jones shuddered afresh,--"an' he's all tied up an' I've took him prisoner an' I'm goin' to take him home."
"Oh, William, you are brave!" she whispered in the darkness as she flitted away to her nurse.
William blushed with pride and embarrassment.
Mr. Percival Jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour him till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under proper restraint.
Unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor, casting propitiatory glances behind him.
"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.