"It's that sour faced brute Conrad," he decided. "That's a
fellow I shall enjoy getting even with one of these days. This is
just a bit of spite on his part. I'm certain of it."
Further meditations induced in him the feeling that it would be
extremely pleasant to bring something down with a whack on
Conrad's egg-shaped head. Tommy stroked his own head tenderly,
and gave himself up to the pleasures of imagination. Finally a
bright idea flashed across his brain. Why not convert imagination
into reality? Conrad was undoubtedly the tenant of the house.
The others, with the possible exception of the bearded German,
merely used it as a rendezvous. Therefore, why not wait in
ambush for Conrad behind the door, and when he entered bring down
a chair, or one of the decrepit pictures, smartly on to his head.
One would, of course, be careful not to hit too hard. And
then--and then, simply walk out! If he met anyone on the way
down, well----Tommy brightened at the thought of an encounter
with his fists. Such an affair was infinitely more in his line
than the verbal encounter of this afternoon. Intoxicated by his
plan, Tommy gently unhooked the picture of the Devil and Faust,
and settled himself in position. His hopes were high. The plan
seemed to him simple but excellent.
|