I watched him in amazement as he tore a
mattress from an adjoining bunk and forced it through the opening,
spreading it fore and aft over the stones.
"Now," he said, regaining his feet and surveying the whole with
undisguised satisfaction, "he'll be as safe there as in my new family
vault."
"But" I began, a light dawning upon me.
"Allen, old man," said Mr. Cooke, "come here."
The Celebrity laid down his book and looked up: my client was putting on
his coat.
"Come here, old man," he repeated.
And he actually came. But he stopped when he caught sight of the open
trap and of the mattress beneath it.
"How will that suit you?" asked Mr. Cooke, smiling broadly as he wiped
his face with an embroidered handkerchief.
The Celebrity looked at the mattress, then at me, and lastly at Mr.
Cooke. His face was a study:
"And--And you think I am going to get in there?" he said, his voice
shaking.
My client fell back a step.
"Why not?" he demanded. "It's about your size, comfortable, and all the
air you want" (here Mr. Cooke stuck his finger through the bit hole).
"Damn me, if I were in your fix, I wouldn't stop at a kennel."
"Then you're cursed badly mistaken," said the Celebrity, going back to
his corner; "I'm tired of being made an ass of for you and your party."
"An ass!" exclaimed my client, in proper indignation.
"Yes, an ass," said the Celebrity. And he resumed his book.
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