Peter's little eyes twinkled.
"He is right, andt you are right. But we better put der colonel in his bed, ja."
"'A Daniel come to judgment!'" cried Murray. "Now what might you mean by that, friend Peter?"
"You know what I mean—andt I know what you mean," returned the Dutchman solemnly. "You are a big rascal, but dot time maybe you was right."
"Don't be an idiot, Peter," I rasped.
"'Tis you are the idiot," affirmed my great-uncle. "Here are you and Peter—two honest men if any ever were—and myself, with less claim to virtue perhaps, but as acute an interest, if the truth be known. And all three of us a-hungering to safeguard the lass. What mother might ask more?"
"And Flint," I amended. "He'd protect her, I suppose."
"He'll never have the chance, Robert," he answered gravely. "You and Peter have played ducks and drakes, between you, with my plans; but John Flint is not the man to overreach me. Give him rope, lad—and we'll present him his chance to hang."
"Ja," said Peter. "We take care of der little gal—andt so we put der colonel in his bed."
And so we did, to an accompaniment of stammered oaths and tags of Jacobite ditties.