So Mr. Boyce-Upchurch walked back and entered the bathroom. There, from a pitcher, he poured the basin full of water and then stripped to what among athletes is known as the buff, meaning by that the pink, and he dipped an embroidered guest towel in the basin and with it sopped himself from head to feet, then dampened a cake of soap and wielded it until his body and his head and his limbs and members richly had been sudded. This done he recrossed his chamber, pausing only to turn out the lights. He stepped out upon the porch roof, gasping slightly as the downpouring torrent struck him on his bare flesh. * * * * * From the head of the stairs Mr. Gridley, in a puzzled way, called down: "Say, Emaline?" "In a minute--I'm just making sure everything is locked up down here," answered Mrs. Gridley in a voice oddly strained. "Say, do you know what?" Mr. Gridley retreated a few steps downward. "He's gone and put his shoes outside his door in the hall. What do you suppose the big idea is?" "Put out to be cleaned," explained Mr. Braid from the foot of the stairs. "Quaint old custom--William the Conqueror always put his out. But don't call 'em shoes; that's one of those crude Americanisms of yours. The proper word is 'boot.'" "Well, who in thunder does he expect is going to clean them?--that's what I want to know!" demanded the pestered Mr. Gridley. "Perhaps the slavey--" began Mr. Braid. "Ollie, for heaven's sake hush!" snapped Mrs. Gridley. "I warn you my nerves can't stand much more tonight. They're still up out in the kitchen--and suppose Delia heard you. It's a blessing she didn't hear him this afternoon." "I wonder if he thinks I'm going to shine 'em?" inquired Mr. Gridley, his tone plaintive, querulous, protesting. He strengthened himself with a resolution: "Well, I'm not! Here's one worm that's beginning to turn." "There's Ditto," speculated Mrs. Gridley. "I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing to either of those other two. But maybe possibly Ditto--" "Never, except over my dead body," declared Mr. Braid. "I'd as soon ask His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury to press my pants for me. Fie, for shame, Dumplings!" "But who--" "I, gallant Jack Harkaway the volunteer fireman," proclaimed Mr. Braid. "I, Michael Strogoff the Courier of the Czar--I'll shine his doggone shoes--I mean, his doggone boots. I'll slip up and get 'em now. There's a brush and some polish out back somewheres. Only, by rights, I should have some of the genuine Day & Martin to do it with. And I ought to whistle through my teeth. In Dickens they always whistled through their teeth, cleaning shoes." "Well, for one, I'm going to take a couple of aspirin tablets and go straight to bed," said Mrs. Gridley. "Thank goodness for one thing, anyway--it's just coming down in bucketsful outside!" * * * * *