The
triumphant odd-job man, pressing his advantage like a good
general, gathered up the ends, converted it into a rude bag, and
one more was added to the long list of the victories of the human
over the brute intelligence.
Everybody had a suggestion now. The cook advocated drowning. The
parlour-maid favoured the idea of hitting the prisoner with a
broom-handle. Wrench, eyeing the struggling apron disapprovingly,
mentioned that Mr Pickering had bought a revolver that morning.
'Put him in the coal-cellar,' said Lady Wetherby.
Wrench was more far-seeing.
'If I might offer the warning, m'lady,' said Wrench, 'not the
cellar. It is full of coal. It would be placing temptation in the
animal's way.'
The odd-job man endorsed this.
'Put him in the garage, then,' said Lady Wetherby.
The odd-job man departed, bearing his heaving bag at arm's length.
The cook and the parlour-maid addressed themselves to comforting
and healing the scullery-maid. Wrench went off to polish silver,
Lady Wetherby to resume her letters. The cat was the last of the
party to return to the normal. She came down from the chimney an
hour later covered with soot, demanding restoratives.
Lady Wetherby finished her letters. She cut them short, for
Eustace's insurgence had interfered with her flow of ideas.
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