“It’s true,” admitted Ronny Devereux, his hand on one side. “Eight clocks all ticking at once do make a devil of a row. Even old Gerry, ass as he is, couldn’t miss it. He’ll guess something’s up.”
“I wonder if he is,” said Jimmy Thesiger.
“Is what?”
“Such an ass as we all think.”
Ronny stared at him.
“We all know old Gerald.”
“Do we?” said Jimmy. “I’ve sometimes thought that—well, that it isn’t possible for anyone to be quite the ass old Gerry makes himself out to be.”
They all stared at him. There was a serious look on Ronny’s face.
“Jimmy,” he said, “you’ve got brains.”
“A second Pongo,” said Bill encouragingly.
“Well, it just occurred to me, that’s all,” said Jimmy, defending himself.
“Oh! don’t let’s all be subtle,” cried Socks. “What are we to do about these clocks?”
“Here’s Pongo coming back again. Let’s ask him,” suggested Jimmy.
Pongo, urged to bring his great brain to bear upon the matter, gave his decision.
“Wait till he’s gone to bed and got to sleep. Then enter the room very quietly and put the clocks down on the floor.”