have you arrested!"

Genesis rushed forward.

"You CLEM!" he shouted.

And instantly Clematis was but a whitish and brownish streak along the
hedge. He ran like a dog in a moving picture when they speed the film,
and he shot from sight, once more, round the corner, while Flopit, still
cursing, was seized and squeezed in his mistress's embrace.

But she was not satisfied. "Where's that laundryman with the tin thing
on his head?" she demanded. "He ought to be arrested for having such a
dog. It's HIS dog, isn't it? Where is he?"

Genesis turned and looked round about the horizon, mystified. William
Sylvanus Baxter and the clothes-boiler had disappeared from sight.

"If he owns that dog," asserted the still furious owner of Flopit, "I
WILL have him arrested. Where is he? Where is that laundryman?"

"Why, he," Genesis began slowly, "HE ain' no laundrym--" He came to an
uncertain pause. If she chose to assume, with quick feminine intuition,
that the dog was William's and that William was a laundryman, it was not
Genesis's place to enlighten her. "'Tic'larly," he reflected, "since
she talk so free about gittin' people 'rested!" He became aware that
William had squirmed through the hedge and now lay prostrate on the
other side of it, but this, likewise, was something within neither his
duty nor his inclination to reveal.