Tish Marches On by Mary Roberts Rinehart Page A

our dear Tish as usual had been right. I may say, too, that up to that afternoon we had not considered the matter of a mousetrap. As Tish said, with such a contraption we ran the risk of injury to the mouse.
    But that afternoon a young man called with quite an unusual one. True, it was large and bulky, but he stated at once that mice so caught were not injured at all.
    “Or at least,” he added, “not necessarily. The can or reservoir may of course be filled with water, thus drowning the little creature. But left dry it is quite safe.”
    He then explained the mechanism.
    “You get the idea,” he said. “The mouse enters here on the floor level for the cheese. As it does so it trips the door, which imprisons it quite harmlessly. After eating the cheese it naturally seeks to escape, but the door is closed. It therefore climbs this gentle winding ascent to the top of the reservoir and steps on this small plank. Its weight trips the plank and it slides painlessly into the reservoir; to life or death as you may decide.”
    He seemed very gratified when we purchased it, and as he was quite pleasant and even good-looking, Tish gave him a glass of cordial. This seemed to cheer him, and he stated that he was only selling mousetraps temporarily.
    “I had hoped for better things,” he said, with a faint smile at all of us. “I had a job. I had a future. I even had a girl. I was,” he added brokenly, “very much in love with her. But in the end she failed me. Any girl who would act as she did—Well, never mind about that. Here’s to the trap, ladies; and the mouse.”
    Before he left he said his name was Jones, and that he might drop in from time to time to see how the mechanism was operating. When I recall that, and his duplicity throughout the entire affair, I am filled with indignation. But it must be stated, here and now, that none of us were responsible for the treatment he received later during the incident at the Zoo. Or for his broken camera.

II
    W E SPENT THE REMAINDER of the afternoon in laying our plans. Tish was convinced that the family on the second floor of her apartment house would have mice, as they were most untidy. That failing, she arranged with Mr. Beilstein, her butcher, for a visit that night to his basement. And Mr. Caspari, who runs a restaurant in the neighborhood, did not keep a cat and was willing to let us into his cellar if necessary.
    At last all was prepared, and we gathered together our impedimenta, consisting of the mousetrap, the package of cheese, the butterfly net, the flashlight, and the small tin of shoe blacking. With these properties, so to speak, and dressed entirely in dark garments, we felt prepared for anything, and Tish telephoned Charlie Sands and so notified him.
    He seemed rather uneasy, however.
    “Now see here,” he protested. “You are only going after a mouse. You don’t have to kill anybody. No murders, no publicity, and absolutely no trouble with the police. Is that a promise?”
    To which Tish made no reply, simply hanging up the receiver. I have recorded this here, as he has since stated that we committed an absolute breach of contract. There was no contract.
    Nevertheless, I must say that our first attempt that evening was most unsuccessful. Discovering that the family on the second floor was away from home, at nine o’clock that night, having blackened our faces, we went down the fire escape and entered by a window. From the disorder of the kitchen it looked most promising, and Tish was in the act of placing cheese in the trap when to our horror we heard voices in the next room.
    We immediately took refuge in the kitchen closet, but here unluckily Aggie backed against a blueberry pie. It made a most frightful noise as it fell, and we barely managed to escape. And it is indicative of the way things were to go with us that night that someone put a head out of a window and screamed and that a police officer passing below saw us and followed us up the fire