I’m going to do my best to find out why those two rooms are not open to me, their rightful owner. If it’s because they harbour cut-throats, it’s just as well that we should know as soon as we conveniently can. So I’m off on a voyage of discovery. You can go to bed if you like.”
Of course I went with her. It was a choice of two evils—frightful evils—but, under the circumstances, nothing would have induced me to go to bed by myself. I would far rather have had my throat cut with her than be eaten by rats alone. She began to hunt about the room.
“I’m looking for some useful little trifle which might come in handy in breaking down a solidly-constructed door or two. Here’s a poker, heavy make—there’s some smashing capacity in that; a pair of tongs; a fender—there’s a business end to a fender; furniture—I have heard of chairs being used as battering-rams before to-day. My mother used to tell of how once, when his landlady locked him out because he wouldn’t pay the rent of his rooms, my Uncle Benjamin burst his way into the house with the aid of a chair, snatched off a passing cart which was laden with somebody else’s goods, so I can’t see how he could object to my trying the same kind of thing in the house which was once his own. But I won’t—not yet. To begin with I’ll give the poker a trial, and you might take the tongs.”
I took the tongs, though the only thing against which I should be likely to use them would be rats, even if I ventured to touch them. Indeed, the mere idea of squelching a wriggling, writhing, squeaking rat between a pair of tongs made an icy shiver go all down my spine. Pollie whirled the poker round her head with a regular whoop. What had come to her I could not imagine. Her eyes flamed; her cheeks were flushed; she was transformed. I verily believe that if half-a-dozen men had rushed in at the door
