directly to an open upstairs window was Archroy’s extendable aluminium ladder. “Luck indeed,” said Jim Pooley, gripping it delightedly and testing its footings for safety.
He was all of five rungs up when a small clear voice in his head said, “Pooley, why do you think that there would be a ladder resting so conveniently against Archroy’s wall and leading directly to an open upstairs window?”
Pooley arrested his ascent and thought for a moment or two. Perhaps Archroy was cleaning his windows and forgot to remove the ladder? The small voice said, “Come now, Pooley.”
“I’ll just shin up and have a quick shufty in through the window,” Pooley told the voice. He accomplished the ascent with admirable dexterity, considering that the effects of the Professor’s sherry seemed to be increasing by the minute. The full moon shone down through the bedroom window, flooding the room with its septic light. Pooley’s head rose cautiously above the window sill and came to rest, his nose hooked over it in the manner of the legendary Chad. As his eyes took in the situation the words that escaped his lips in an amazed whisper were generally of a sort totally unprintable.
There upon continental quilt, bouncing and gyrating in a frenzy of sexual abandonment, was Archroy’s wife. Locked in passionate congress with this insatiable female was none other than John Vincent Omally, bachelor of this parish.
“Bastard,” mouthed Jim Pooley, which was at least in the Oxford Dictionary. “The conniving treacherous…” his mind sought about for an adjective suitable to the expression of his displeasure. It was during the search that Pooley’s eyes alighted upon the very objects which had led him to the unexpected viewing of this lewd and certainly x-certificate performance.
There they lay, glowing with a faint luminescence, upon the dressing-table inches away from the window. Pooley spied them with great satisfaction, feeling that his noble quest had been justly rewarded by instantaneous success achieved with only the minimum of physical exertion and with next to no danger to life or limb. This feeling of well-being was, however, almost immediately succeeded by one of disgust. For although the beans lay in attitudes suggestive of lifelessness, it was obvious to Jim from where he clung to his airy perch that they were very much on the alert. They were quite definitely watching and apparently thoroughly enjoying the erotic spectacle. They exuded such a sense of dark evil and inhuman nastiness that Jim was hard put to it to subdue the disgust which rose within him like an out-of-season vindaloo.
Taking a deep yet silent breath, he thrust his hand through the window and snatched up the sinister beans from their grandstand seats on the dressing-table. Omally’s bum, glowing ivory in the moonlight, rose and fell undeterred. Pooley thrust the beans into his coat pocket and made haste down the ladder.
Here he transferred the beans into a drawstring bag sanctified by the Professor for the purpose. “Another job jobbed,” said Pooley with some relief. The operations had been a remarkable success, handled with alacrity, diligence, dexterity and skill. High upon Olympus hosts of ancient Pooleys opened a bottle of champagne and toasted their descendant.
Pooley strode down the alley with a jaunty spring to his step. He had not gone but three yards, however, when the vengeful left pedal of Marchant caught him by the sound trouser-cuff and upended him into the muddy gloom.
“You swine,” growled Pooley, lashing out with his boots in as many directions as possible.
“Who’s there?” said a voice from an upper window.
Jim edged along the side wall of the house, gained the street and took to his heels. In the darkened alleyway Omally’s bike chuckled mechanically to its iron self and rang its bell in delight. On High Olympus the Pooleys sought other amusements.
6
Captain Carson stood upon the porch of the Seamen’s Mission
He was all of five rungs up when a small clear voice in his head said, “Pooley, why do you think that there would be a ladder resting so conveniently against Archroy’s wall and leading directly to an open upstairs window?”
Pooley arrested his ascent and thought for a moment or two. Perhaps Archroy was cleaning his windows and forgot to remove the ladder? The small voice said, “Come now, Pooley.”
“I’ll just shin up and have a quick shufty in through the window,” Pooley told the voice. He accomplished the ascent with admirable dexterity, considering that the effects of the Professor’s sherry seemed to be increasing by the minute. The full moon shone down through the bedroom window, flooding the room with its septic light. Pooley’s head rose cautiously above the window sill and came to rest, his nose hooked over it in the manner of the legendary Chad. As his eyes took in the situation the words that escaped his lips in an amazed whisper were generally of a sort totally unprintable.
There upon continental quilt, bouncing and gyrating in a frenzy of sexual abandonment, was Archroy’s wife. Locked in passionate congress with this insatiable female was none other than John Vincent Omally, bachelor of this parish.
“Bastard,” mouthed Jim Pooley, which was at least in the Oxford Dictionary. “The conniving treacherous…” his mind sought about for an adjective suitable to the expression of his displeasure. It was during the search that Pooley’s eyes alighted upon the very objects which had led him to the unexpected viewing of this lewd and certainly x-certificate performance.
There they lay, glowing with a faint luminescence, upon the dressing-table inches away from the window. Pooley spied them with great satisfaction, feeling that his noble quest had been justly rewarded by instantaneous success achieved with only the minimum of physical exertion and with next to no danger to life or limb. This feeling of well-being was, however, almost immediately succeeded by one of disgust. For although the beans lay in attitudes suggestive of lifelessness, it was obvious to Jim from where he clung to his airy perch that they were very much on the alert. They were quite definitely watching and apparently thoroughly enjoying the erotic spectacle. They exuded such a sense of dark evil and inhuman nastiness that Jim was hard put to it to subdue the disgust which rose within him like an out-of-season vindaloo.
Taking a deep yet silent breath, he thrust his hand through the window and snatched up the sinister beans from their grandstand seats on the dressing-table. Omally’s bum, glowing ivory in the moonlight, rose and fell undeterred. Pooley thrust the beans into his coat pocket and made haste down the ladder.
Here he transferred the beans into a drawstring bag sanctified by the Professor for the purpose. “Another job jobbed,” said Pooley with some relief. The operations had been a remarkable success, handled with alacrity, diligence, dexterity and skill. High upon Olympus hosts of ancient Pooleys opened a bottle of champagne and toasted their descendant.
Pooley strode down the alley with a jaunty spring to his step. He had not gone but three yards, however, when the vengeful left pedal of Marchant caught him by the sound trouser-cuff and upended him into the muddy gloom.
“You swine,” growled Pooley, lashing out with his boots in as many directions as possible.
“Who’s there?” said a voice from an upper window.
Jim edged along the side wall of the house, gained the street and took to his heels. In the darkened alleyway Omally’s bike chuckled mechanically to its iron self and rang its bell in delight. On High Olympus the Pooleys sought other amusements.
6
Captain Carson stood upon the porch of the Seamen’s Mission
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