Wet Magic
light ever penetrated. That is how dungeons are described in books about the Inquisition.
When the voice from the bush had said "The police," a stricken silence followed. The mouth of Francis felt dry inside, just as if he had been eating cracknels, he explained afterward, and he had to swallow nothing before he could say:
"What for?"
"Let go his arm," said Mavis to the hidden foe. "We won't run away. Really we won't."
"You can't," said the Mermaid. "You can't leave me."
"Leave go," said Francis, wriggling. And then suddenly Mavis made a dart at the clutching hand and caught it by the wrist and whispered savagely:
"It's not a policeman at all. Come out of that bush—come out," and dragged. And something did come out of the bush.
Something that certainly was not a policeman. It was small and thin, whereas policemen are almost always tall and stout. It did not wear the blue coats our Roberts wear, but velveteen knickerbockers and a tweed jacket. It was, in fact, a very small boy.
Francis broke into a cackle of relief.
"You little—animal," he said. "What a fright you gave me."
"Animal yourself, if you come to that, let alone her and her tail," the boy answered; and Mavis thought his voice didn't sound unfriendly. "My! But I did take a rise out of you that time, eh? Ain't she bit you yet, nor yet strook you with that there mackerel-end of hers?"
And then they recognized him. It was the little Spangled Boy. Only now, of course, being off duty he was no more spangled than you and I are.
"Whatever did you do it for?" Mavis asked crossly. "It was horrid of you."
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