“Hash!” he called. “He appears to be out.” “Hash!” “Gone for a walk, no doubt.” “Hash!” shouted Sam. From the regions below there came an answering cry. “Hi! Help!” It had been a long and arduous task for Hash Todhunter to expel from his mouth the duster which Soapy Molloy had rammed into it with such earnest care, but he had accomplished it at last, and his voice sounded to Mr. Molloy like a knell. “He appears to be in, after all,” he said feebly. Sam had turned and was regarding him fixedly, and Soapy noted with a sinking heart the athletic set of his shoulders and the large muscularity of his hands. “Haul off and bust him one!” his wife’s gentle voice seemed to whisper in his ear; but eying Sam, he knew that any such project was but a Utopian dream. Sam had the unmistakable look of one who, if busted, would infallibly bust in return and bust disintegratingly. “You tied him up, I suppose,” said Sam, with a menacing calm. Soapy said nothing. There is a time for words and a time for silence. Sam looked at him in some perplexity. He had begun to see that he was faced with the rather delicate problem of how to be in two places at the same time. He must, of course, at once go down to the kitchen and release Hash. But if he did that, would not this marauder immediately escape by the front door? And if he took him down with him to the kitchen, the probability was that he would escape by the back door. While if he merely left him in this room and locked the door, he would proceed at once to depart by the window. It was a nice problem, but all problems are capable of solution. Sam solved this one in a spasm of pure inspiration. He pointed a menacing finger at Soapy. “Take off those trousers!” he said. Soapy gaped. The intellectual pressure of the conversation had become too much for him. “Trousers?” he faltered. “Trousers. You know perfectly well what trousers are,” said Sam, “and it’s no good pretending you don’t. Take them off!” “Take off my trousers?” “Good Lord!” said Sam with sudden petulance. “What’s the matter with the man. You do it every night, don’t you? You do it when you take a Turkish bath, don’t you? Where’s the difficulty? Peel them off and don’t waste time.” “But----” “Listen!” said Sam. “If those trousers are not delivered to me f. o. b. in thirty seconds, I’ll bust you one!” He had them in eighteen. “Now,” said Sam, “I think you’ll find it a little difficult to get away.” He gathered up the garments, draped them over his arm and went down to the kitchen. § 2 Love is the master passion. It had come to Hash Todhunter late, but, like measles, the more violent for the delay. A natural inclination to go upstairs and rend his recent aggressor limb from limb faded before the more imperious urge to dash across to San Rafael and see Claire. It was the first thing of which he spoke when Sam, with the aid of a carving knife, had cut his bonds. “I got to see ’er!” “Are you hurt, Hash?”