CHAPTER III.
JOHN HENRY'S BURGLAR.
When finally I located Bunch and told him the bitter truth he acted
like a zee-zee boy in a Wheel House.
Laugh! Say! he just threw out his chest and cackled a solo that
fairly bit its way through my anatomy.
Every once in a white he'd give me the red-faced glare and
snicker, "Oh, you mark! You Cincherine! You to the seltzer
bottle--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 his
thirst-teaser that made the neighborhood jump sideways and rubber
for a cop.
"What are you going to do?" he asked me when presently his face
grew too tired to hold any more wrinkles.
[Illustration: 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 my
brain gets bashful and hides. There's nothing in my noddle now but
a headache."
"Well," said Bunch, "I'll throw a wire at my sister and tell her
not to move out to Jiggersville until day 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.
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