"
"Where do you keep this bow and arrow?" I inquired, with a studied
assumption of carelessness.
"To-night I'll keep it under my pillow. _Honi soit qui oncle
Pierre_, 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 dog
revolver, maybe a bull dog _and_ a revolver, for a dog in the
manger is the noblest Roman of them all."
I could see poor Bunch scooting across the lawn with a bunch of
arrows in his ramparts and Uncle Peter behind, prodding his citadel
with a carving knife.
I began to get a hunch that our plan of campaign was threatened
with an attack of busy Uncle Peter, and I had just about decided to
remove his door key and lock the old man up in his room when Clara
J. came in to announce dinner.
Aunt Martha and Clara J. had collaborated on the dinner and it was
a success. Uncle Peter said so, and his appetite is one of those
brave fighting machines that never says die till every plate is
clean.
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 business
for the drama about to be enacted when Bunch crept through the
picket lines.
About midnight a dog in the neighborhood began to hurl forth a
series of the most distressing bow-bows I ever heard. I arose, put
up the window and looked out.
I saw a tall man with a bunch of whiskers on his face flying across
the lot pursued by a black-and-tan pup, which snapped eagerly at
the man's heels and seemed determined to eat him up if ever the
runner stopped long enough.
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