“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 makes a man’s stomach digest mince pies—­how’s that?  Notice the air out here?  How pure and fresh and bracing!  You ought 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.  “I firmly believe I could run five miles to-day without straining a muscle.”

I laughed internally and thought of the glorious opportunity he’d have before the morning broke.

“You may or may not know, John,” the old gentleman kept on, “that I was a remarkably fine swordsman in my younger days.  Parry, thrust, cut, slash—­heigho! those were the times.  And, to tell you the truth, I’m still able to hold my own with the sword or pistol.  I found a sword hanging on the wall in the hall to-day and I’ve been practising a few swings.”