The Mouse in the Mountain | Page 3

gleefully. "Watch me give him the hotfoot!"
He took a kitchen match from his pocket and began to stalk the sleeping Carstairs like a big game hunter. Janet started to protest, but Doan winked at her and shook his head.
When Mortimer was still about a yard away, Carstairs sat up and looked at him. Sitting, Carstairs' face was on a level with Mortimer's. Slowly Carstairs opened his mouth until it was wide enough to take in Mortimer's whole head with room to spare. Mortimer stood paralyzed with shock, staring into the yawning red cavern.
Carstairs leaned forward and closed his jaws with a viciously grinding snap just an inch in front of Mortimer's nose.
"Yeow!" Mortimer shrieked. "Yeow! Maw! Maw!" He blew across the terrace and through the door into the lobby in a blurred, rust-tipped streak.
"Mister," said Henshaw enthusiastically, "I'll buy that dog! How much?"
"I couldn't sell him," Doan said. "He wouldn't allow it, and besides he supports me in my off-seasons."
"He does?" Janet asked. "How? Does he work?"
"Well," said Doan. "Yes and no. It's a rather delicate subject. You see, there are certain lady Great Danes who clamor for his attentions..."
Janet blushed again. "Oh!"
"Well, would you rent him to me by the day?" Henshaw requested. "I'll be awfully nice to him."
Doan shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I'll have him scare Mortimer for you whenever you want, though, if we're around."
"Friend," said Henshaw, "you do that, and you've got a lifelong pal, and I mean it. I'm in the plumbing business--'Better Bathrooms for a Better America.' What's your line?"
"Crime," Doan told him.
"You mean you're a public enemy?" Henshaw asked, interested.
"There have been rumors to that effect," Doan said. "But I claim I'm a private detective:"
"Oh," said Henshaw indifferently. "One of them, huh? Well, I always say a man's got to make a living some way."
The woman who had previously shouted for Mortimer appeared. Mortimer was close behind her, peering around her, first on one side and then the other, as she advanced.
"Now, Mortimer," she said firmly, "you show me that dog that attacked you and I'll--Oh! Oh! Wilbur, save me!"
"From what?" Henshaw asked sourly.
The woman pointed a plump, quivering finger at Carstairs. "From that--that horrible thing!" She was wearing a peasant smock and a varicolored full skirt, and she would really have looked like a peasant except that she affected pince-nez glasses with thin gold rims. "It's a savage beast!"
"You bet," Henshaw agreed. "Savage and smart. I've promised him Mortimer for dinner."
"Yeow!" said Mortimer. "Maw!"
The woman said severely: "Wilbur, you stop saying things like that! You know you'll give Mortimer nightmares!"
"Why not?" Henshaw said. "He gives me plenty. This is my wife, folks. Miss Janet Martin and Mr. Doan. When do we start this trip to Los Altos, anyway?"
"On schedule," said Bartolome. "Just as it exactly prints. Be so kind as to entering and sitting on the luxurious seats with legroom."
Doan flicked Carstairs' ear with his forefinger and said: "Up-si-daisy."
Carstairs got up and sauntered over to the bus.
"He's not going with us!" Mrs. Henshaw said shrilly. "Not that awful animal!"
"With my permission, positively not," Bartolome told her. "I refer you to the bloated brigand who proprietors this foul establishment and also the trips of sight-seeing magnificence."
"I won't go!" said Mrs. Henshaw. "And neither will Mortimer!"
"Good," said Henshaw. "See you later."
Mrs. Henshaw turned her head slowly and ominously and peered through the pince-nez at Janet Martin. She looked Janet over detail by detail once, and then repeated the survey, nodding her head knowingly.
"So," she said. "We're going."
"Maw!" said Mortimer. "That dog--"
"Shut up," said Mrs. Henshaw. "I know your father and his lascivious instincts--to my sorrow!"
Doan opened the door of the bus and helped Carstairs in by giving him a heave from the rear. Carstairs paused to look the bus's interior over in a leisurely way and then padded along the aisle to the back. He sat down on the floor and sighed and stared gloomily out the window. Doan elbowed him out of the way and sat down in the seat beside him.
Janet said shyly: "May I please sit here with you?"
"Certainly," said Doan. He put his hand on the side of Carstairs' head and shoved. "Move over, you oaf."
Carstairs grunted and shifted his position. When Janet sat down, he stared at her calculatingly, tilting his head first on one side and then the other. Finally he slid his forefeet out a little, lowering himself, and put his head in her lap.
Doan watched, amazed. "Why, he likes you!"
Janet patted Carstairs' head. "Doesn't he usually like people?"
"No. He hates them. He despises me."
"Despises you!" Janet exclaimed. "But why?"
"Well, I won him in a crap game. He resents that. And then my name's not in the social register, and his is."
"What is it? His name?"
"Carstairs. Dougal's Laird Carstairs to be exact."
"Does he have a