There was Piddie, though, with his say.  His idea is to have the reserves from two precincts scattered all over the shop, and he lugs around such a serious face and talks so panicky that at last the boss compromises on havin’ two of the buildin’ specials detailed for the job.  We smuggles ’em into the big room at eleven o’clock, and tells ’em to lay low until they gets the word.  Next comes Bingstetter, blinkin’ mysterious, and has himself concealed behind a screen in the private office.  By that time Old Hickory is almost as nervous as anybody.

“Fine state of affairs, things are at now,” he growls, “when a man isn’t safe unless he has a bodyguard!  That’s what comes of all this political agitation!”

“Have no fear,” says the Doc; “you will not receive the fifth bouquet.  Boy, leave that door into the next room slightly ajar.  He will try to escape that way.”

“Ajar she is,” says I, proppin’ it open with a ’phone directory.

“’Tis well,” says the Doc.  “Now leave us.”

I was goin’ to, anyway; for at exactly noon I had a date somewhere else.  There was a window openin’ off the bondroom that was screened by a pile of cases, and out from that was an iron fire escape runnin’ along the whole court side on our floor.  I’d picked that window out as bein’ a good place to scout from.  And I couldn’t have been better placed; for I saw just who I was expectin’ the minute he heaves in sight.  I’d like to have had one glimpse, though, of Old Hickory and the Doc and Piddie while they was watchin’ and listenin’ and holdin’ their breath inside there.  But I’m near enough when the time comes, to hear that chorus of gasps that’s let loose at twelve-twenty-six exact.

“Ha!” says the Doc.  “As I told you—­a red rose!”

“Well, I’ll be slam-whizzled!” explodes Old Hickory.

“But—­but where did it come from?” pants Piddie.  “Who—­who could have——­”

And that’s just when little Willie, after creepin’ cautious along the fire escape, gives his unsuspectin’ victim the snappy elbow tackle from behind and shoves him into view.

“Here’s your desperado!” says I, givin’ my man the persuadin’ knee in the small of his back.  “Ah, scramble in there, Old Top!  You ain’t goin’ to be hurt.  In with you now!”

“Look out!” squeals Piddie.  “Police, police!”

“Ah, can that!” I sings out, helpin’ my prisoner through the window and followin’ after.  “Police nothin’!  Shoo ’em back, will you?  He’s as harmless as a kitten.”

“Torchy,” calls Old Hickory, recoverin’ his nerve a little, “what is the meaning of this, and who have you there?”

“This,” says I, straightenin’ my man up with a shoulder slap, “is the bearer of the fifth bouquet—­also the fourth, and the third, and so on.  This is Mr. Cubbins of the Consolidated Window Cleanin’ Company.  Ain’t that right, eh, old sport?”

“‘Enery Cubbins, Sir,” says he, scrapin’ his foot polite and jerkin’ off his old cap.