“A pig!” sneers the Lieutenant.  “Very likely, that is!”

“Yez didn’t think it was a hip-pot-ta-mus, did ye?” comes back Maggie.  “An’ why should you be after botherin’ us with your health ordinances—­two poor girls that has a chance to turn a few pennies, with pork so dear?  ‘Look at all that good swill goin’ to waste,’ says I to Katie here.  ‘An’ who’s to care if I do boil some extra praties now an’ then?  Mr. Bauer’s that rich, ain’t he?  An’ what harm at all should there be in raisin’ one little shoat in th’ back yard?’ So there, Mister!  Do your worst.  An’ maybe it’s only a warnin’ I’ll get from th’ justice when he hears how Schwartzenberger’s killed and dressed and taken him off before daylight.  There he goes, the poor darlint!  That’s his last squeal.”

We didn’t need to stretch our ears to catch it.  I looks over at the Lieutenant and grins foolish.  But he wouldn’t be satisfied until Maggie had towed him out to view the remains.  He’s pink behind the ears when he comes back, too.

“Please, Mister Inspector,” says Maggie, “you’ll not have us up this time, will yez?”

“Bah!” says Cecil.

“Seein’ it’s you,” says I, “he won’t.  Course, though, a report of this plot of yours’ll have to be made to the British War Office.”

“Oh, I say now!” protests the Lieutenant.

And all the way down to his hotel he holds that vivid neck tint.

“Well,” says Old Hickory, as I drifts back to the office, “did you and the Lieutenant discover any serious plot of international character?”

“Sure thing!” says I.  “We found a contraband Irish pig in Herman Bauer’s back yard.

“Wha-a-at?” he demands.

“If the pig had been a bomb, and its tail a time-fuse,” says I, “it would have wrecked our main works.  As it, is, we’ve had a narrow escape.  But I don’t think Cecil will bother us any more.  He’s too good for the army, anyway.  He ought to be writin’ for the movies.”

CHAPTER III

TORCHY HANDS OUT A SPILL

Maybe I’ve indulged, now and then, in a few remarks on Auntie.  But, say, there’s no danger of exhaustin’ the subject—­not a chance.  For she’s some complicated old girl, take it from me.  First off, there’s that stick-around disposition of hers.  Now, I expect that just naturally grew on her, same as my pink thatch did on me.  She can’t help it; and what’s the use blamin’ her for it?

So, when I drop in for my reg’lar Wednesday and Sunday night calls, the main object of the expedition being to swap a little friendly chatter with Vee, and I find Auntie planted prominent and permanent in the sittin’-room, why, I just grins and makes the best of it.

A patient and consistent sitter-out, Auntie is.  And you know that face of hers ain’t exactly the chirky sort.  Don’t encourage you to get chummy, or tip her the confidential wink, or chuck her under the chin.  Nothing like that—­no.