But there was
none in sight. So he walked toward the avenue corner, with his
parcel under his arm. There he turned south, and at the next
corner swung about west again. But the right chance to get rid of
his turkey bones had not come. He glanced uneasily about. He
suddenly remembered that the police had the habit of holding up
belated parcel carriers and inspecting what they carried. So he
quickened his steps. But all the while he was covertly on the
lookout for his dumping spot.
A moment later he saw a patrolman on the street corner ahead of
him. He dreaded the thought of passing those scrutinizing eyes.
He eventually decided it would be too risky. So he doubled on his
own tracks, rabbit-like, crossing the street and turning north at
the next corner. He had had enough of the whole thing. It was
getting to be more than a joke. He would shilly-shally no longer,
even though he had to toss the cursed thing up on a house step.
He let the parcel slip lower down on his arm, with one finger
crooked through the string that tied it together. He was about to
fling it into the gloom of a brownstone step shadow when the door
above opened and a housemaid in cap and apron thrust a
plaintively meowing cat from the portico into the street.
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