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