"Mike!" It was Bill Porter's voice. I put one hand on the balustrade and vaulted into the garden. From behind a mass of shrubbery came sounds of a struggle, and Bill's voice rose again. "Mike, you ape! Step on it!" I plowed through where someone had gone before. Bill, his shirtfront awry, his coat-tails torn and muddy, was grappling with a snarling, kicking little man about half his size. As I burst out of the shrubbery, Bill kicked his legs from under him and they went down in the newly spaded