tore up the carpet, and the hidden push-button was revealed. Standing back from the trap, they pushed the button, and the door fell back. One of the coppers held it from springing into place again by inserting the dice in the springs, and another flashed his pocket light into the dark hole.
Resistance was futile, and the Great Panjandrum and his aids surrendered. One by one they gave their hands to the coppers, and were pulled out of the hole and handcuffed. George was last. He stood upon his two feet, a hero, and told his story, which he had to repeat later at the police station.
BUT IN the meantime there was wail-
ing and weeping at Martha Washington’s. She had received the news of
George Washington’s death with the
grief that was becoming and proper to a
faithful and loving wife. First she
buried her face in a pillow-slip that she
had just ironed, and drenched it with
tears, making a further ironing necessary. Then she took the blood-stained
hat from the policeman who had brought
it, and wept over it, and called upon
heaven to witness that she had always
loved this wonderful hero husband of
hers with a love that surpassed all understanding.
The news of his death had spread rapidly, together with the story of his incredible heroism in attempting to take the Great Panjandrum single-handed, after the police had refused to help him. One report had it that he had slain the Great Panjandrum in mortal combat, and was thereupon foully done to death from behind by a craven disciple of voodoo, and dragged away and his body thrown down a well. But all accounts agreed that he had been a hero. And the blood-stained hat, still red from the life-fluid of the black goat, was mute witness that he had been murdered.
“Oh, mah man, mah man!” moaned Martha. "He was a hero, mah man was! An’ naow he done lef’ me! He won’t nevah come back to me, nevah no’ mo’! An’ all his life he was so kind, an’ we nevah ain’t had one cross word pass between, us all our lives. An’ naow he’s dead! Ain’t it awful?”
Her grief was sincere. There could be no doubt of that, although some of her neighbors thought she was overdoing it just a little.
"Wy, you Martha, doan’ tell so many lies, ef you wants to git to heb’n wen you dies,” Mandy Williams reproached her. “Jawge warn’t no hero, else he’d a gone in de ahmy. An’ you was always quarrelin’, you two. Lan’ sakes, ah nevah knowed two sech people fo' callin’ each othah names, as Jawge Washin’ton an’ you.”
“Mandy, yo’ quit talkin’ dat way! I’se enjoyin’ mah misery, an? heah yo’ comes an’ tries to spoil it all!"
BUT George Washington was far from
dead. He walked, homeward with a
sprightly step, after he left the police
station, for the world was his. He had
vanquished the Great Panjandrum, and
now and henceforth forever he would be
a hero. What would Martha Washington say now?
She was almost alone when he burst in upon her grief. She looked Up through scared eyes, and blinked. The woman with her, who had come to console her and gather the latest news, shrank away.
"Watsa mattah?” asked George. “Wy you-all lookin’ dat way? You-all sho' does look skeered o’ sumpin. Watsa mattah, Martha?"
"Jawge Washin’ton! Yo’ hain’t no ghost? Yo’se all ’heah in de flesh?. An' yo’ hain’t ben murdered! Praise be!”
