As he did so there came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet and
a cheerful whistling of "The Wearing of the Green." It is a lugubrious
song as a rule, but, as rendered by Officer Keating returning home with
theatre tickets, it had all the joyousness of a march-tune.
Every muscle in Mr. Buffin's body stiffened. He gripped his stick and
waited. The road was deserted. In another moment....
And then, from nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. The
whistling stopped in the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out,
and then a confused medley of sound, the rasping of feet, a growling
almost canine, a sharp yelp, gasps, and over all the vast voice of
Officer Keating threatening slaughter.
For a moment Mr. Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had been
so sudden, so unexpected. And then, as he realised what was happening,
there swept over him in a wave a sense of intolerable injustice. It is
not easy to describe his emotions, but they resembled most nearly those
of an inventor whose patent has been infringed, or an author whose idea
has been stolen. For weeks--and weeks that had seemed like years--he
had marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For weeks he had tortured
a mind all unused to thinking into providing him with schemes for
accomplishing his end.
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