"If I were you, I should try a better line of business," he said. "Ghosts frighten silly women, and highwaymen are not very creditable, on the whole."
"Yes," agreed Sandy. "We're goin' to. Next we're goin' to be pioneers and settlers."
"Ah, I see. And where are you going to settle?"
Sandy's bright eyes were turned suspiciously to the kind ones looking down upon him. He fidgeted uneasily, and a smile came across the Bishop's face.
"I see," he said. "Perhaps you have not yet made up your minds."
Sandy looked uncomfortable. "Not 'zactly," he confessed. "Truth is, it depends—I don't fink Dave would like me to tell. It's such a grand plan," he went on enthusiastically, "it 'ud be such a pity——"
"To have it spoilt. Well, don't get into more mischief than you can help," the Bishop cautioned, "and don't do anything to make your mother uneasy."
"Mother? Oh, mother'll laugh—she always does. You see, the bother is," confided Sandy, "there ain't no places to pioneer—every bit's taken. An' we've on'y just thought on it; an' it's splendid. We want a girl badly, though. Margie? No, Margie's no good. Settlers has wives an' squaws," went on Sandy pensively, "and we've on'y got Barbe lately, an' she's aw'fly little. 'Sides, you have to take such care on her—she's the on'y one Mr. Pelham's got. There's a lot of us, but mother says she cudn't spare not the littlest bit of one. So much less him his one, an' such a little one. It's a 'sponsibility," sighed Sandy, "when you want to do fings."
Through the open window came the musical sound of the chimes from the cathedral. The Bishop, with a quick sigh, rose.
"There is a quarter to twelve. Your father will be going to bed. Fetch David quickly."