“Why,” said Bunyip, “the simpler course is not to finish the case at all.”

“Solved, as usual,” said Bill and, seizing the Puddin’ from the bench, he dashed out of Court, followed by Sam, Ben and Bunyip Bluegum.

As they ran, they could hear the Judge still whacking away at everybody, including the Mayor, and the Constable, whose screams were piercing.  “Indeed,” said Bunyip—­

“I rather think they’ll rather rue
The haste with which they sought to sue
Us in the Court of Tooraloo. 
  For, mark how just is Fate!

“The whole benighted, blooming crew,
The Puddin’-thieves, the Usher too,
Are being beaten black and blue
  With bottles on the pate.

“I rather think they will eschew,
In future, Puddin’-owners who
Pass through the simple rural view
About the town of Tooraloo.”

“And now,” said Bill, when they had run a mile or two beyond the town, “and now for some brilliant plan, swiftly conceived, which will put a stop to this Puddin’-snatchin’ business for ever.  For the point is,” continued Bill, lowering his voice, “here we are pretty close up to the end of the book, and something will have to be done in a Tremendous Hurry, or else we’ll be cut off short by the cover.”

“The solution is perfectly simple,” said Bunyip.  “We have merely to stop wandering along the road, and the story will stop wandering through the book.  This, too, will baffle the puddin’ thieves, for while we wander along the road, our Puddin’ is exposed to the covetous glances of every passing puddin’-snatcher.  Let us, then, remove to some safe, secluded spot and settle down to a life of gaiety, dance and song, where no puddin’-thief will dare to show a sacrilegious head.  Let us, in fact, build a house in a tree.  For, mark the advantages of such a habitation—­

“Up on high
No neighbours pry
  In at the window,
On the sly.

“Up on high
Bricks you shy
  At bores and bailiffs
Passing by.

“Up in a tree
You’re always free
  From bores and bailiffs,
You’ll agree.

“Up in the leaves
One never grieves
  Over the pranks
Of puddin’-thieves.

“If you would be
Gay and free,
  Take my tip and
Live in a tree.”

“We will, we will,” shouted the Puddin’-owners; but the Puddin’ said sourly:  “This is all very well, all this high falutin’.  But what about the dreadful news of me being poisoned at ten-thirty this morning?”

“You ain’t poisoned, Albert,” said Bill.  “That was only a mere ruse de guerre, as they say in the noosepapers.”

 A what?” demanded the Puddin’, suspiciously.

“Let words be sufficient, without explanation,” said Bill, severely.  “And as we haven’t time to waste talkin’ philosophy to a Puddin’, why, into the bag he goes, or we’ll never get the story finished.”