“Not just yet,” said Boyce, as James was going into the sleeping-room where Jerusha Maria was making vigorous efforts to get out of her cradle. “You’ve got to go down, and lock us out. I’m not a going to carry a heavy key about in my pocket. Besides, safe bind and safe find is my motto. So make sure you don’t go to sleep with the baby, for we depend on you to let us in, and so will the other party.”
James made no answer, but took the key that Boyce held out, and followed the two down stairs. The store was dark as midnight, for the shutters were firmly closed, and the candle which James carried, only gave out a faint circle of light, by which the clerk and housemaid found their way into the street.
James closed the door after them, locked it, and looked around for an iron bar, that usually stood back of the door, ready for the two staples sunk into the woodwork on either side. It was not to be seen. The boy held down his light, and searched for it in every place he could think of, but in vain.
“Boyce has flung it down somewhere, moving the things about,” he thought, a little anxiously. “It was awful careless of him; but there’s no need of it. The lock is strong enough, and I’m not likely to go to sleep.”
Just then the little girl up stairs gave an impatient yell, which drove all ideas of the bar out of the lad’s mind; with the key in his hand, he rushed up stairs, calling out cheerfully to the little night-hawk as he went.
During the next half hour James was busy carrying that spoiled child up and down the room, while she tugged viciously at his hair, sobbed, shrieked, and kicked her tiny feet against his chest, until even her unnatural energy gave out, and she fell asleep in his tired arms.
With the stealthy tread of a cat, and holding his breath, James laid the child in its crib, and sat down completely tired out. He had been busy all day, and excitement had taken away his appetite. He was not hungry now, but found his throat dry, and a feverish thirst upon him.
A pitcher of root beer stood on the table, with a tumbler, from which Boyce had drank before going out. The bottle of paregoric, brought from the druggist’s that afternoon, was on the window-sill close by, almost empty.
James took up the tumbler, filled it, and drank eagerly. It seemed a little strong, but he thought nothing of that until he noticed the vial on the window. Then he fancied a taste of paregoric in his mouth.
“I suppose they dropped the spoon into the glass, after the baby had done with it,” he thought. “But what a jolly dose they must have given her. There isn’t a teaspoonful left. How she will sleep, now that I’ve got her down.”