"Hump!" said Aunt Angela.

Edward returned bearing his offerings, a gent's rimless boater, a doorknob,
six inches of lead-piping and half a bottle of cod-liver oil.

"Hump!" said Aunt Angela.

No more was said of it that night. Aunt Angela resumed her sewing, Edward
his _Gertie_, I my slumb--, my meditations. Nor indeed was the jumble sale
again mentioned, a fact which in itself should have aroused my suspicions;
but I am like that, innocent as a sucking-dove. I had put the matter out of
my mind altogether until yesterday evening, when, hearing the sound of
laboured breathing and the frantic clanking of a bicycle pump proceeding
from the shed, I went thither to investigate, and was nearly capsized by
Edward charging out.

"It's gone," he cried--"gone!" and pawed wildly for his stirrup.

"What has?" I inquired.

"'The Limit,'" he wailed. "She's picked ... lock ... muck-room with a
hairpin, sent ... Limit ... jumble sale!"

He sprang aboard his cycle and disappeared down the high road to St.
Gwithian, pedalling like a squirrel on a treadmill, the tails of his new
mackintosh spread like wings on the breeze. So Aunt Angela with serpentine
guile had deferred her raid until the last moment and then bagged "The
Limit," the pride of the muck-room.