Aunt Martha had just about decided to untie a fit of hysterics,
when Clara J. reached for the kerosene bucket and threw oil on the
troubled waters.
"Let's drop all this nonsense about burglars and ghosts and go to
breakfast," she suggested. "I don't believe there ever was a ghost
within sixty miles of this house, and to save my soul I couldn't be
afraid of a burglar whose specialty consisted of falling in the
cellar and swearing till help came!"
After breakfast I was dragged away to the brook to fish for lamb
chops or whatever kind of an animal it was that Uncle Peter and
Tacks decided would bite. Aunt Martha posted off to the city on
urgent business, the nature of which she carefully concealed from
everybody.
Clara J. said she'd be delighted to have the house all to herself
for an hour or two, there were so many rooms to look through and so
many plans to make.
Uncle Peter gave her his bow and arrow with full instructions how
to shoot if danger threatened, and Tacks carefully rubbed the steps
leading up to the piazza with soap so the burglar would fall and
break his neck. Then the little shrimp called my attention to his
handiwork and demonstrated its availability by slipping thereon
himself and going the whole distance on his face. He didn't break
his neck, however, so to my mind his burglar alarm failed to make
good.
As time wore on I felt more and more like a mock turtle being led
to the soup house.
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