It was the sign.
Off in the alley, the express driver and his helper were still
gazing up through the opera glass.
"What d'ye see, Bill?" he asked, handing over the glass.
The other took it and looked. "It's him--the Hand, Jack,"
whispered the helper, handing the glasses back.
They jumped into the wagon and away it rattled.
Jensen was smoking placidly as the wagon pulled up the second
time.
"Sorry," said the driver sheepishly, "but we delivered the cabinet
to the wrong Mr. Kennedy."
He pulled out the inevitable book to prove it.
"Wall, you bane fine fallers," growled Jensen, puffing like a
furnace, in his fury. "You cannot go up agane."
"We'll get fired for the mistake," pleaded the helper.
"Just this once," urged the driver, as he rattled some loose
change in his pocket. "Here--there goes a whole day's tips."
He handed Jens a dollar in small change.
Still grumpy but mollified by the silver Jens let them go up and
opened the door to our rooms again. There stood the cabinet, as
outwardly innocent as when it came in.
Lugging and tugging they managed to get the heavy piece of
furniture out and downstairs again, loading it on the wagon. Then
they drove off with it, accompanied by a parting volley from
Jensen.
In an unfrequented street, perhaps half a mile away, the wagon
stopped.
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