Bunch decided to come up. I didn't hold the watch on him, but I
figure it took him about seven-sixteenths of a second to make the
decision.
As the criminal slowly emerged from the cellar the spectators stood
back, spellbound and breathless; Aunt Martha with a long tin dipper
raised in an attitude of defense, and Uncle Peter with the bow and
arrow ready for instant use.
These war-like precautions were unnecessary, however. Bunch was a
sight. His clothing had accumulated all the mud in the unfinished
cellar and his false whiskers were skewed around, giving his face
the 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 the
bracelets on his wrist and said, "Come on, Mr. Buggular! This
here's a fine night's work for everybody in this neighborhood
because you've been a source of pesterment around here for six
months. If you don't get ten years, Mr. Buggular, then I ain't no
guess maker. Come along; goodnight to you, one and all; that there
boy that catched this buggular ought to get rewarded nice!"
"He will be," I said mentally, as Mr. Diggs led the suffering Bunch
away 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 poor
fellow.
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