Back to the Woods

by George V. Hobart

  CHAPTER III.

  JOHN HENRY'S BURGLAR.

  When finally I located Bunch and told him the bitter truth he actedlike a zee-zee boy in a Wheel House.

  Laugh! Say! he just threw out his chest and cackled a solo thatfairly bit its way through my anatomy.

  Every once in a white he'd give me the red-faced glare andsnicker, "Oh, you mark! You Cincherine! You to the seltzerbottle--fizz!--fizz! The only and original Wheeze Puller, not!You're all right--backwards!"

  Then he'd throw his ears back and let a chortle out of histhirst-teaser that made the neighborhood jump sideways and rubberfor a cop.

  "What are you going to do?" he asked me when presently his facegrew too tired to hold any more wrinkles.

  Uncle Peter--the Original Trust Tamer.]

  "Give me the count," I sighed; 'I'm down and out."

  "Have you no plan at all?" inquired Bunch.

  "Plan, nothing," I said; "every time I try to think of a plan mybrain gets bashful and hides. There's nothing in my noddle now buta headache."

  "Well," said Bunch, "I'll throw a wire at my sister and tell hernot to move out to Jiggersville until day after to-morrow. In themean time we'll have to get a crowbar and pry your family circleloose 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 insuranceIndians," 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 playSpike Hennessy and I'll be Gumshoe Charlie. We'll disguiseourselves with whiskers and break into the house about 2 o'clock inthe morning. We'll arouse the sleeping inmates, shoot ourbullet-holders in the ceiling once or twice and hand them enoughexcitement to make them gallop back to town on the first train. Doyou follow me, eh, what?"

  "Not me, Bunch," I shook my head sadly. "Nix on the burgle foryours truly. I must take the next train back to the woods.Otherwise wee wifey may suspect something and begin to pass me outthe zero language. But I like the burglar idea. Couldn't you doit as a monologue?"

  "What! all by my lonesome?" cried Bunch. "Say! John, doesn't thatsound like making me work a trifle too hard to get my own goodsback ?"

  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 onlylife-saver on duty so I'll do a single specialty and pull you outof the pickle bottle."

  I grasped my rescuer's hand and shook it warmly in silence.

  "Leave a front window open," Bunch directed, "and somewhere aroundtwo o'clock I'll squeeze through."

  "I'll have it worked up good and proper," I said, eagerly. "I'llthrow out dark hints all the evening and have the bunch ready toquiver when the crash comes. As soon as I hear your signal I'llrush bravely down stairs and you shoot the ceiling. I'll give youa struggle and chase you outside. Then I'll run you down behindthe barn. There, free from observation, you can shoot a couple ofholes 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 tomy palpitating household, and, displaying my wounded coat, declareeverything off. I'll refuse to live any longer in a house wheremurder and sudden death occupy the spare room. It looks to me likea cinchalorum, Bunch, a regular cinchalorum!"

  "It sounds good," Bunch acquiesced, "and I'll give you an imitationof the best little amateur cracksman that ever swung a jimmy. I'lltake a late train out and hang around till it's time to ring thecurtain up. By the way, are there any revolvers on the premises?"

  "Not a gun," I answered, "not even an ice-pick. Uncle Peter won'tshow fight. All he'll show will be a blonde night gown cuttingacross lots to beat the breeze. Aunt Martha will climb to theattic, Clara J. will be busy doing a scream solo, and Tacks willcrawl under the bed and pull the bed after him. There'll be nointerference, Bunch; it's easy money!"

  With this complete understanding we parted and I hustled back toJiggersville.

  I found the family still delirious with delight with the exceptionof Clara J. whose enthusiasm had been dampened by my suddendeparture.

  My reappearance brought her back to earth, however, and in thepresence of so many new excitements she didn't even question mewith regard to my City trip.

  As the evening wore on my nervousness increased and I began towonder if Bunch would really turn the trick or give me the loudsnicker and leave me flat.

  I had gone too far now to confess everything to Clara J. She'dnever forgive me.

  If I told her the facts in the case the long Arctic Winter Nightwould 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, flushedand happy as a school boy. "I've just left the garden," hechuckled.

  "No, you haven't," I said, glancing at his shoes; "you've broughtmost of it in here with you."

  I never touched him. The old gentleman sat down in a loud rockerand began to tell me a lot of things I didn't want to hear. UnclePeter always intersperses his remarks on current topics with bitsof parboiled philosophy that make one want to get up and drive himthrough the carpet with a tack hammer. When it comes to wise sawsand proverbial stunts Uncle Peter has Solomon backed up in thecorner.

  "John," he said, "this country life is great. Early to bed andearly to rise makes a man's stomach digest mince pies--how's that?Notice the air out here? How pure and fresh and bracing! Youought to go out and run a mile, John!"

  "I'd like to run ten miles," I answered, truthfully.

  "Exercise, that's the essence of life, my boy!" he continued. "Ifirmly believe I could run five miles to-day without straining amuscle."

  I laughed internally and thought of the glorious opportunity he'dhave before the morning broke.

  "You may or may not know, John," the old gentleman kept on, "that Iwas a remarkably fine swordsman in my younger days. Parry, thrust,cut, slash--heigho! those were the times. And, to tell you thetruth, I'm still able to hold my own with the sword or pistol. Ifound a sword hanging on the wall in the hall to-day and I've beenpractising a few swings."

  A vision of Uncle Peter running a rusty sword into the interiordepartment of the disguised and disgusted Bunch rose before me, butI blew it away with a laugh.

  "He laughs best who laughs in his sleeve," chuckled the old party."Now that we're out in the country all of us should learn to handlea sword or a pistol. It gives us self reliance. It's verydifferent from living in the city, I tell you. A tramp in thelock-up is worth two in the kitchen. I shot at a mark for an hourto-day."

  "What with?" I gasped.

  "With a bow and arrow I bought for Tacks yesterday directly Ilearned we were coming to the country. I hit the bull's eye fiveout of six times. An ounce of prevention is worth two hundredpounds of policemen, you know. Tacks practised, too, and drove anarrow through a strange man's overalls and was chased half a milefor his skill in marksmanship, but, as I said before, the exercisewill do him good."

  "Where do you keep this bow and arrow?" I inquired, with a studiedassumption of carelessness.

  "To-night I'll keep it under my pillow. _Honi soit qui onclePierre_, which means, evil be to him who monkeys with Uncle Peter,"he said, solemnly. "To-morrow I'm going to town to buy a bull dogrevolver, maybe a bull dog _and_ a revolver, for a dog in themanger is the noblest Roman of them all."

  I could see poor Bunch scooting across the lawn with a bunch ofarrows in his ramparts and Uncle Peter behind, prodding his citadelwith a carving knife.

  I began to get a hunch that our plan of campaign was threatenedwith an attack of busy Uncle Peter, and I had just about decided toremove his door key and lock the old man up in his room when ClaraJ.
came in to announce dinner.

  Aunt Martha and Clara J. had collaborated on the dinner and it wasa success. Uncle Peter said so, and his appetite is one of thosebrave fighting machines that never says die till every plate isclean.

  I was so nervous I couldn't eat a bite, but I pleaded a toothache,so they all gave me the sympathetic stare and passed me up.

  We went to bed early and I rehearsed mentally the stage businessfor the drama about to be enacted when Bunch crept through thepicket lines.

  About midnight a dog in the neighborhood began to hurl forth aseries of the most distressing bow-bows I ever heard. I arose, putup the window and looked out.

  I saw a tall man with a bunch of whiskers on his face flying acrossthe lot pursued by a black-and-tan pup, which snapped eagerly atthe man's heels and seemed determined to eat him up if ever therunner stopped long enough.

  I felt in my bones that the one in the lead was Bunch, and I sigheddeeply and went back to bed.

  I must have dropped into an uneasy sleep for Clara J. was tappingme on the arm when I started up and asked the answer.

  "There's somebody in the house," she whispered, not a bitfrightened, to my surprise and dismay, "Maybe it's only the ghostyou told us about--what a lark!"

  "Somebody in the house," I muttered, going on the stage blindly toplay my part; "and there isn't a gun in the castle."

  "Yes there is," she answered, joyfully, I fancied; "mother broughtfather's revolver over yesterday and made me put it in my satchel.She said we would feel safer at night with it in the house. Do letme shoot him; I can aim straight, indeed I can! Why, John, whatmakes you tremble so?"

  "I'm not trembling, you goose!" I snarled; "I can't find my shoes,that's all. Doggone if I'm going to live in a joint like this withghosts and burglars all over the place."

  Just then an alarming yell ascended from the regions below,followed by a crash and a series of the most picturesque,sulphur-lined oaths that mortal man ever gave vent to.

  It was Bunch. His trademark was on every word. I could recognizehis brimstone vocabulary with my eyes shut.

  But what dire fate had befallen him? Surely, not even an amateurcracksman would give himself and the whole snap away unless theprovocation was great.

  Lights began to appear all over the house. Aunt Martha in a weirdmakeup came out of her room screaming, "What is it? What is it?"followed by Uncle Peter and his trusty bow and arrow.

  I began to pray. It was all over. A rosewood casket for Bunch.Me for the Morgue.

  Just as I was ready to rush down to investigate, Tacks camebounding up the stairs, two steps at a time, clad only in hisnightie.

  _Up the stairs_, mind you! The nerve of that kid!

  "Gi'me the prize, sister!" he yelled; "I caught the ghost! Icaught him!"

  "What do you mean?" I said, shaking him.

  Tacks grinned from ear to ear. "You know they's a trap door in thehall so's to get down in the cellar and it ain't finished yet, sothis evening I took the door up and laid heavy paper on it so's ifthe ghost walked on it he'd go through and he did, and I get theprize, don't I, sister?"

  I rushed down to the scene of the explosion, followed by my excitedhousehold.

  Leaning over the yawning cellar trap door I yelled, "Who's downthere?"

  "Oh! you go to hell!" came back the voice of the disgusted Bunch,whereupon Aunt Martha almost fainted, while Uncle Peter loaded hisbow and arrow and prepared to sell his life dearly.

  Great Scott! what a situation! The man who owned the house nursinghis bruises in the muddy cellar while the bunch of interlopersabove him clamored for his life.

  While I puzzled my dizzy think-factory for a way out of the dilemmathere came a terrific knock at the door and Tacks promptly openedit.

  "Have you got him? Have you got him?" inquired the elongated andcadaverous specimen of humanity who burst into the hall and staredat us.

  "I seen him early this evening a'hangin' around these here premisesand I ups and chases him twicet, but the skunk outrun me," thenewcomer gurgled, as he excitedly swung a policeman's billy thesize of a fence rail.

  "Then I seen the lights here and says I, 'they has him'! Perducethe maleyfactor till I trot him to the lock-up!" and with this theminion of the law rolled up his sleeves and prepared for action.

  "I presume you are the chief of police?" inquired Uncle Peter, withan affable smile.

  "I'm all the police they is and my name is Harmony Diggs, andthey's no buggular livin' can get out'n my clutches oncet I gitsthese boys on him," the visitor shouted, waving an antiquated pairof handcuffs excitedly in the air.

  Tacks watched him open-mouthed. That boy was having the time ofhis life and it would have pleased me immeasurably to paddle him tosleep with Harmony's night stick.

  "I caught him!" Tacks cried in exultant tones when the villagecopper looked his way; "he's down there."

  "Down there, eh?" snorted the country Sherlock, getting on hisknees and peering into the depths, but just then Bunch handed him ahandful of hard mud which located temporarily over Harmony's lefteye and put his optic on the blink.

  With the other eye, however, Mr. Diggs caught a glimpse of a stepladder, which he immediately lowered through the trap, and drawinga murderous looking revolver from his pocket, commanded Bunch tocome up or be shot.

  Bunch decided to come up. I didn't hold the watch on him, but Ifigure it took him about seven-sixteenths of a second to make thedecision.

  As the criminal slowly emerged from the cellar the spectators stoodback, spellbound and breathless; Aunt Martha with a long tin dipperraised in an attitude of defense, and Uncle Peter with the bow andarrow ready for instant use.

  These war-like precautions were unnecessary, however. Bunch was asight. His clothing had accumulated all the mud in the unfinishedcellar and his false whiskers were skewed around, giving his facethe expression of a prize gorilla.

  Bunch looked at me reproachfully, but never opened his head. Say!if ever there was a dead game sport, Bunch Jefferson is the answer.

  He didn't even whimper when the village Hawkshaw snapped thebracelets on his wrist and said, "Come on, Mr. Buggular! Thishere's a fine night's work for everybody in this neighborhoodbecause you've been a source of pesterment around here for sixmonths. If you don't get ten years, Mr. Buggular, then I ain't noguess maker. Come along; goodnight to you, one and all; that thereboy that catched this buggular ought to get rewarded nice!"

  "He will be," I said mentally, as Mr. Diggs led the suffering Bunchaway to the Bastile.

  "I've got to see that villain landed in a cell," I said to Clara J.as the door closed on the victor and vanquished.

  "Do, John!" she answered; "but don't be too hard on the poorfellow. You can't tell what temptations may have led him astray.I certainly am disappointed for I was sure it was the ghost.Anyway, the burglar had whiskers like the ghost's, didn't he?"

  I didn't stop to reply, but grabbing my coat rushed away toformulate some plan to get Bunch out of hock.