"I say, what's up?
Is that the alarm?"
"No!
I reckon it's No. 1 general rallying signal."
They scaled the fence and dived through a hole in the paling of the park, where they bumped into a sturdy, broad-shouldered chap named Geika.
Vasili Ladygin showed up next, and after him several others.
Swiftly and noiselessly they sped toward their 'destination along paths known to them alone, exchanging clipped phrases as they ran:
"Is that the alarm?"
"Nope.
It's No. 1 general rally."
"What rally?
This isn't 'three-stop, three-stop'.
It's some lunatic wheeling off ten at a time!"
"All right, we'll see."
"Sure, we'll check up!"
"Come on!
Full speed ahead!"
As all this was going on, a tall, dark-haired boy of about thirteen was standing in the living-room of the villa where Jenny had spent the night.
He was wearing black trousers and a dark blue sleeveless shirt with a red star embroidered in front.
A shaggy, grey-haired old man came in.
His coarse linen shirt was threadbare and his baggy trousers were covered with patches.
A roughly made wooden leg was strapped to his left knee.
In one hand he held a piece of paper, and in the other he was clutching a battered old revolver. ; „
" 'When you leave see you give the door a good bang, he read out derisively. "Well, perhaps you'll let me know who slept here on the sofa last night?"
"A girl I know," the boy replied reluctantly. "I wasn't at home and the dog wouldn't let her leave."
"That's a lie!" said the old man testily. "If you knew her you'd have written her name on the note."
"When I wrote it I didn't know her name.
Now I do."
"You didn't know it?
And you went off in the morning leaving her all by herself?
My dear boy, you're obviously not a hundred per cent, and it's high time you were put in the loony bin.
That good-for-nothing girl broke the mirror and chipped the ashtray.
It was a good thing the revolver was charged with blanks.
What if they had been real bullets?"
"But Uncle—you don't keep real bullets, because your enemies' sabres and rifles are—only wood, after all."
A suggestion of a smile flitted across the old man's face.
But he tossed back his shaggy head and said sternly:
"Better look out!
I notice everything, I can see you're up to some monkey business, and if you don't take care I'll send you back to your mother."
The old man stumped upstairs.
As soon as he was gone the boy jumped up, grabbed the front paws of the dog, which came trotting in just then, and kissed it on the nose.
"Well, Rita!
We didn't get away with it, this time!
It's okay, though. He's in a good mood today.
He'll start singing in a minute."
And that was exactly what happened.
The old man upstairs cleared his throat, let out a trial tra-la-la, and then began to sing in a low baritone:
Three nights I've kept my wearing watch. I peer Into the dismal dark and always seem to hear Muffled, suspicious sounds. . . .
"Stop that, you mad dog!" Timur cried. "You'll tear my trousers! Where are you trying to drag me?"
A moment later, however, he slammed the door of the staircase leading up to his uncle's room and raced the dog down the hallway and out onto the veranda.