Suddenly a cheery voice rang out and Peter's hands shot up above
his head.
"Ah, Breen & Co.! One of those plaguey sevens for a nine. Here we
are! Oh, Peter Grayson, how often have I told you to be careful!
Ah, what a sorry block of wood you carry on your shoulders. I
won't be a minute now, Major." A gratuitous compliment on the part
of my friend, I being a poor devil of a contractor without
military aspirations of any kind. "Well, well, how could I have
been so stupid. Get ready to close up, Patrick. No, thank you,
Patrick, my coat's inside; I'll fetch it."
He was quite another man now, closing the great ledger with a
bang; shouldering it as Moses did the Tables of the Law, and
carrying it into the big vault behind him--big enough to back a
buggy into had the great door been wider--shooting the bolts,
whirring the combination into so hopeless and confused a state
that should even the most daring and expert of burglars have tried
his hand or his jimmy on its steel plating he would have given up
in despair (that is unless big Patrick fell asleep--an unheard-of
occurrence) and all with such spring and joyousness of movement
that had I not seen him like this many times before I would have
been deluded into the belief that the real Peter had been locked
up in the dismal vault with the musty books and that an entirely
different kind of Peter was skipping about outside.
Pages:
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30