And they did pull, but, by Jove, they couldn't raise him. "Queerest go I ever see," Tim gasped. "He ain't holding on to nothing, is he? And, O'Keefe, he _feels big_!" "Pshaw, it's not that," the other panted; "it's just the way he's sitting. Why, you can _see_ he ain't so very big." He nodded to Jenkins and the janitor. "Here, you two! Help us, can't you?" And with one mighty, united heave, they brought the loudly protesting old man to his feet and held him there. O'Keefe faced me. "Might be well to take a look around, sir, and see if you think of anything else he's stolen, before we take him off." "Good idea, Lightnut!" Old Braxton stopped struggling and whirled his head toward me, his face almost black with rage. "Ha, ha! Why don't you have me searched? There's not a pocket in these damn pajamas!" "Anything whatever, sir, we'll have him leave behind," said O'Keefe. "By Jove!" I don't know how I ever managed to say it. Fact is, things had just suddenly spun round before me like a merry what's-its-name. For I _did_ recognize something! The old fellow's unabashed reference to pajamas was what brought it to my attention. "Ha!" O'Keefe nodded. "There _is_ something! Just say the word, sir." I looked helplessly at Jenkins, and then I saw that of a sudden he recognized them, too. His eyes rolled at me understandingly. "What is it, sir?" demanded O'Keefe respectfully. "The law requires--" I swallowed hard. "It--it's the pajamas," I said faintly. The old rascal uttered a roar and tried to get at me. "You cold-blooded scoundrel!" he bellowed. "So this is why--" But here a jab of the night stick took him in the side with a sound like a blow on a punching bag. Words left the old man and he gasped desperately for breath. O'Keefe tried to shake him. "Did you get those pajamas in here?" he demanded fiercely, and he drew back his stick as though for another jab. But the old geezer nodded quickly, glaring at me and trying to wheeze something. "That's enough," said the officer. He turned to me. "You recognize them, do you, sir?" "I--I think so," I stammered, looking at Jenkins, who nodded. "They belong to a friend of mine who--a--must have left them here." "I see." He fished out a note-book. "Mind giving me the name, sir? Just a matter of form, you know--" He licked his pencil expectantly. "Oh, I say, you know--" I gasped at Jenkins. "I don't think she--I--" "Certainly not, sir," affirmed Jenkins, solemnly looking upward. "She?" The note-book slowly closed, then with the pencil went back into the officer's pocket. "Excuse _me_, sir. H'm!" "H'm!" echoed Tim apologetically. Then they both glared at Foxy. The old man just snarled at them. He was like a dog at bay. "All right!" he hissed. "You just try to take them off--I'll kill somebody, that's all. Think I'm going to make a spectacle of myself?" Jenkins whispered to me.