The Wrong House
of pyjamas with bare feet and young faces at either end of them.
"Who? Who?" said they, giving way before me.
"Some fellow who came through one of your windows head-first."
"The other Johnny, the other Johnny," the cherubs chorused.
"Biking past—saw the light—why, what have you there?"
Of course it was Raffles's hand that they had, but now I was in the hall among them. A redfaced barrel of a boy did all the holding, one hand round the wrist, the other palm to palm, and his knees braced up against the panel. Another was rendering ostentatious but ineffectual aid, and three or four others danced about in their pyjamas. After all, they were not more than four to one. I had raised my voice, so that Raffles might hear me and take heart, and now I raised it again. Yet to this day I cannot account for my inspiration, that proved nothing less.
"Don't talk so loud," they were crying below their breath; "don't wake 'em upstairs, this is our show."
"Then I see you've got one of them," said I, as desired. "Well, if you want the other you
207
