But the professor did not come back that day. He must have had urgent
business in New York, for he remained there all night, and all the next
day, too, and if he had not paid his bill in advance, Mrs. Muldoon would
have suspected that he had run away. But his bill was paid, and his
luggage was still in the room, and the educated fleas, or their numerous
offspring, explored the boarding-house at will, and romped through all
the rooms as if they owned them. If Professor Jocolino had been there he
would have had to listen to some forcible remonstrances. It was Flannery
who at length took the law into his own hands.

It was late Sunday evening. The upper hall was dark, and Flannery stole
softly down the hall in his socks and pushed open the professor's door.
The room was quite dark, and Flannery stole into it and closed the door
behind himself. He drew from his pocket an insect-powder gun, and fired
it. It was an instrument something like a bellows, and it fired by a
simple squeeze, sending a shower of powder that fell in all directions.
It was a light, yellow powder, and Flannery deluged the room with it. He
stole stealthily about, shooting the curtains, shooting the bed,
shooting the picture of the late Mr. Timothy Muldoon, shooting the
floor. He bent down and shot under the bed, and under the washstand,
until a film of yellow dust lay over the whole room, and then he turned
to the closet and opened that. There hung Professor Jocolino's other
clothes, and Flannery jerked them from the hooks and carried them at
arm's length to the bed, and shot them.

As he was shooting into the pocket of a pair of striped trousers the
door opened and Professor Jocolino stood on the threshold. There was no
doubt in the professor's mind. He was being robbed! He drew a pistol
from his pocket and fired. The bullet whizzed over the bending
Flannery's head, and before the professor could fire a second time