For an answer Mr. Loomis jigged the food packages up and down on the end of the string, and Dinah disappeared from the window.
Mr. Loomis knew that this method of delivery was melodramatic and quite unnecessarily dangerous, but he employed it because it made him feel that he and Dinah were living in some fairy tale, a prince and princess banded together against the wicked ogress who might at any minute pop out and catch them red-handed. This was the only spice to his home life; it brought a heightening of every sensation — somewhat similar to that which he had felt during the worst days of the London blitz.
At length a small white figure emerged from die back door of the Milton house. Dinah scrambled over the wall which separated the two gardens. Crouching in the shadows like an experienced commando, the little girl ran to the chrysanthemum bed where she trampled relentlessly over the plants in her eagerness.
Sitting angler-fashion at the window, Mr. Loomis felt a tug on his line and released the string. Immediately, he heard the kitchen door slam and his heart missed a beat as he saw the figure of his wife standing, large and formidable, in the narrow pathway, blocking Dinah’s sole avenue of escape.
For a moment the child stood irresolute; then, deciding to make a dash for it, she crouched again and ran under Mrs. Loomis’ outstretched arm.
But that lady was too quick for her. Sensing her opponent’s strategy, she pounced with surprising agility and grabbed Dinah by the tails of her flowing nightgown.
“Caught you, my fine miss,” she panted. “Trampling on my chrysanthemums.” She swung her free hand and delivered several hard slaps to Dinah’s face and head. “Thief! Wicked, little thief!”
Quivering with outrage, Mr. Loomis shouted, but his voice did not seem to carry. He rushed into the bedroom, tugged open the window just above his wife’s head and cried:
“Stop it, Mabel. Stop it at once! The child is not stealing. I told her she might come over.”
Surprised by this unexpected attack, Mrs. Loomis looked up, momentarily weakening her grasp. Dinah was quick to seize her opportunity. Wriggling herself free and leaving a large piece of her nightgown in her captor’s hand, she dropped her packages and made for the dividing wall as if all the trolls of Grimm and Andersen were after her.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute, Loomis.”
But Mr. Loomis’ only reply was to slam down the bedroom window. He hardly noticed that he shattered a pane of glass as he did so. Angrier than he had ever been in his life, he withdrew to his den for the inevitable encounter.
Soon Mrs. Loomis swept up the stairs, carrying the two manila envelopes and trailing the string behind her like the tail of a comet. Her face was blotched with purple wrath.
“Food!” she screamed. “My food! Giving my food to that skinny little daughter of a cheap...”
The words exploded in a violent hiccough. Mabel had been addicted to hiccoughs recently and they were almost the only force strong enough to stem her overflowing indignation.
“It’s only scraps,” cried Mr. Loomis. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Scraps! My jam tarts — scraps!”
Mrs. Loomis just managed to expel these words, but they were destined to be her swan song, for now a veritable hurricane of hiccoughing swept over her. Muttering something about: “My indigestion — now see what you’ve done,” she hiccoughed her way out of the den and into the bathroom where, Mr. Loomis knew, she was taking the sedative which Dr. Heather had prescribed for her last week. In a few moments he heard her go into the bedroom where she slammed and locked the door noisily behind her.
Mrs. Loomis, being an old-fashioned type, believed that the most effective way to punish a husband was to deny him physical access to her person. It is perhaps superfluous to state that, for Mr. Loomis, this was no punishment but a blessed relief, even though it meant a choice between the unmade bed in the spare room or (an alternative which he infinitely preferred) the narrow couch in his den.
But Mr. Loomis felt by no means ready for bed. Indignation had given him unwonted courage. Those carefully hoarded morsels were meant for Dinah. Dinah should have them. He scooped up the crumbled remnants of food and put them back into the envelopes. Then, without even bothering to go on tiptoe past the bedroom door, he made his way down to the kitchen pantry where he found the two remaining jam tarts. Defiantly he put these also into one of the envelopes and proceeded to the house of his next-door neighbor.
His ring at the bell was answered by a rather pretty little woman with a crumpled pink dress and a great deal of crumpled pinkish hair. Her face was heavily cosmeticized, but her eyes, smiling and friendly, gave her an expression of almost childlike naïveté.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “You’re Mr. Bloomers from next door, aren’t you? Do come in.”
Mr. Loomis followed her into the hall, stammered an apology for his wife’s action, offered the manila envelopes for Dinah and expressed a hope that she was none the worse for the encounter.
“So that’s what all the shindig was about!” Mrs. Milton gave a careless laugh and peeped into one of the envelopes. “Oh, my! Jam tarts. What’s a box or two on the ears if you get jam tarts? I’ll pop ’em up to Dinah while you make yourself comfy in there.”
She indicated the open door of the living room which, when he entered it, was warm and cosy, smelling pleasantly like an inn parlor. The wireless was going merrily and there were several bottles of beer, some full, some empty, on the center table. An enormous man rose to his feet.
“Name of Potts,” he said, holding out a large, horny hand. “Al Potts and pleased to meet you.”
Mr. Loomis murmured his name and indicated that the pleasure was mutual.
“So you’re Bloomers, eh? Mamie’s Dinah don’t talk of nothing but her Daddy Bloomers.” Al Potts winked and poured out a tumbler of beer. “Here, have a drink, Bloomers.”
For a moment Mr. Loomis hesitated. He had not touched any alcoholic beverage since his fire-watching days. But this had turned out to be a new, reckless type of evening.
“Thank you, Mr. Potts. I could do with a drop.”
As he seated himself and sipped at his beer, Al continued: “She’s a greedy kid, Dinah, but you can’t blame ’em these days. We none of us get enough solids. But I myself am more of a one for the liquids.” He laughed heartily at his own joke and then drained his glass.
Mrs. Milton returned to the room. “Dinah says thank Daddy Bloomers and give him a big kiss.” She looked archly at Al. “What would you say if I was to do it, Al?”
Al grunted good-naturedly.
“And she sent another message to another party with words in it a kid didn’t ought to know, so I told her to hush her mouth and eat up her tarts.”
The beer was making Mr. Loomis a trifle giddy. “Mabel had no business to slap the child. I told her off myself. Yes, I told her off good and proper.” Mr. Loomis expanded his meager chest.
“You did?” queried Mamie admiringly.
“I certainly did. And she went off to bed and — she locked the door.”
Mamie said: “Well, I never.” Al refilled Mr. Loomis’ glass. As the warmth engendered by the beer increased, Mr. Loomis felt that the “telling-off” was worth enlarging upon. It was gratifying and unfamiliar to have a sympathetic audience. Their casual friendliness was most gratifying too. Soon they were all chatting with pleasant intimacy. Al, who was a small-time contractor, expressed his dissatisfaction with current conditions in England and announced that he had decided to immigrate to Australia. With a broad grin he confided that he was trying to persuade Mamie to marry him and come along. Mamie laughed and called him “a card” and “a caution.” Later, after another round of beer, she sat on his lap. It was so free and relaxing. Mr. Loomis found it delightful.