Back to the Woods | Page 7

after to-morrow. In the mean time we'll have to get a crowbar and pry your family circle loose from my premises. Nothing doing in the ghost business, eh?"
"Nothing," I answered, mournfully; "I couldn't coax a shiver."
"A fire wouldn't do, would it?" Bunch suggested, thoughtfully.
"It wouldn't do for you, unless you are aces with the insurance Indians," I answered.
"We-o-o-u-w!" yelled Bunch, "I have it--burglars!"
"Burglars!" I repeated, mechanically.
"Sure! it's a pipe!" Bunch went on with enthusiasm. "You will play Spike Hennessy and I'll be Gumshoe Charlie. We'll disguise ourselves with whiskers and break into the house about 2 o'clock in the morning. We'll arouse the sleeping inmates, shoot our bullet-holders in the ceiling once or twice and hand them enough excitement to make them gallop back to town on the first train. Do you follow me, eh, what?"
"Not me, Bunch," I shook my head sadly. "Nix on the burgle for yours truly. I must take the next train back to the woods. Otherwise wee wifey may suspect something and begin to pass me out the zero language. But I like the burglar idea. Couldn't you do it as a monologue?"
"What! all by my lonesome?" cried Bunch. "Say! John, doesn't that sound like making me work a trifle too hard to get my own goods back ?"
I sighed and looked as helpless as a nut under the hammer.
Bunch laughed again. "Oh, very well," he said, "I see I'm the only life-saver on duty so I'll do a single specialty and pull you out of the pickle bottle."
I grasped my rescuer's hand and shook it warmly in silence.
"Leave a front window open," Bunch directed, "and somewhere around two o'clock I'll squeeze through."
"I'll have it worked up good and proper," I said, eagerly. "I'll throw out dark hints all the evening and have the bunch ready to quiver when the crash comes. As soon as I hear your signal I'll rush bravely down stairs and you shoot the ceiling. I'll give you a struggle and chase you outside. Then I'll run you down behind the barn. There, free from observation, you can shoot a couple of holes in my coat so that I can produce evidence of a fierce fight, and then you to the tall timber. I'll crawl breathlessly back to my palpitating household, and, displaying my wounded coat, declare everything off. I'll refuse to live any longer in a house where murder and sudden death occupy the spare room. It looks to me like a cinchalorum, Bunch, a regular cinchalorum!"
"It sounds good," Bunch acquiesced, "and I'll give you an imitation of the best little amateur cracksman that ever swung a jimmy. I'll take a late train out and hang around till it's time to ring the curtain up. By the way, are there any revolvers on the premises?"
"Not a gun," I answered, "not even an ice-pick. Uncle Peter won't show fight. All he'll show will be a blonde night gown cutting across lots to beat the breeze. Aunt Martha will climb to the attic, Clara J. will be busy doing a scream solo, and Tacks will crawl under the bed and pull the bed after him. There'll be no interference, Bunch; it's easy money!"
With this complete understanding we parted and I hustled back to Jiggersville.
I found the family still delirious with delight with the exception of Clara J. whose enthusiasm had been dampened by my sudden departure.
My reappearance brought her back to earth, however, and in the presence of so many new excitements she didn't even question me with regard to my City trip.
As the evening wore on my nervousness increased and I began to wonder if Bunch would really turn the trick or give me the loud snicker and leave me flat.
I had gone too far now to confess everything to Clara J. She'd never forgive me.
If I told her the facts in the case the long Arctic Winter Night would set in, and I'd be playing an icicle on the window frame.
I felt as lonely as a coal scuttle during the strike.
About six o'clock Uncle Peter waded into the sitting room, flushed and happy as a school boy. "I've just left the garden," he chuckled.
"No, you haven't," I said, glancing at his shoes; "you've brought most of it in here with you."
I never touched him. The old gentleman sat down in a loud rocker and began to tell me a lot of things I didn't want to hear. Uncle Peter always intersperses his remarks on current topics with bits of parboiled philosophy that make one want to get up and drive him through the carpet with a tack hammer. When it comes to wise saws and proverbial stunts Uncle Peter has Solomon backed up in the corner.
"John," he said, "this country life is great. Early to bed and early to rise