He pushed up the narrow window, and with much difficulty
forced his little fat body through. Then he dropped down on to
a shelf, and lowered himself gingerly on to the floor. There was
no time to stay to look at his many hurts, he merely regarded
the biggest scratch with rueful eyes, and then began to look around
for provender. The pantry was remarkably empty--not a sign of
cakes, not a bit of jelly, not a remnant of fowl anywhere. He cut
a great piece off a loaf, and carefully wrapped some butter in a
scrap of newspaper. There was some corned beef on a dish, and he
cut off a thick lump and rolled it up with the remains of a
loquat tart. These parcels he disposed of down the loose front of
his sailor coat, filling up his pockets with sultanas, citron-peel,
currants, and such dainties as the store bottles held. And then
he prepared to make his painful retreat.
He climbed upon the shelf once more, put his head out of the
window, and gave a look of despair at the cactus. And even as
he knelt there sounded behind him the sharp click of a turning
key.
He looked wildly round, and there was Martha in the doorway, and
to his utter horror she was talking to his father, who was in the
passage just beyond.
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