"All right, is it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all right?"
"Why, say, boss, dose sleut's is out of business." A merry grin split Spike's face. "It's funny, boss. Gee! It's got a circus skinned! Listen. Dey's bin an' arrest each other."
Jimmy moodily revised his former view. Even in Bloomingdale, this sort of thing would be coldly received. Genius must ever walk alone. Spike would have to get along without hope of meeting a kindred spirit, another fellow-being in tune with his brain-processes.
"Dat's right," chuckled Spike. "Leastways, it ain't."
"No, no," said Jimmy, soothingly. "I quite understand."
"It's dis way, boss. One of dem has bin an' arrest de odder mug. Dey had a scrap, each t'inkin' de odder guy was after de jools, an' not knowin' dey was bot' sleut's, an' now one of dem's bin an' taken de odder off, an'"—there were tears of innocent joy in Spike's eyes—"an' locked him into de coal-cellar."
"What on earth do you mean?"
Spike giggled helplessly.
"Listen, boss. It's dis way. Gee! It beat de band! When it's all dark 'cos of de storm comin' on, I'm in de dressin'-room, chasin' around fer de jool-box, an' just as I gits a line on it, gee! I hears
