“What sort of a noise?” asked the cook.
“A kind of a busting noise,” replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.
“More like the noise of powdering an iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,” suggested Brittle.
“It was, when you heerd, sir,” rejoined Mr. Giles; “but, at this time, it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes,” continued Giles, rolling back the table-cloth, “sat up in bed, and listened.”
The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated, “Lor!” and drew their chairs closer together.
“I heerd it now, quite apparent,” resumed Mr. Giles. “‘Somebody,’ I says, ‘is forcing of a door, or window; what’s to be done? I’ll call up that poor lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed, or his throat,’ I says, ‘may be cut from his right ear to his left, without his ever knowing it.’”
Here all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the most unmitigated horror.
“I tossed off the clothes,” said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, “got softly out of bed, drew on a pair of—”
“Ladies present, Mr. Giles,” murmured the tinker.
“—Of shoes, sir,” said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great emphasis on the word, “seized the loaded pistol that always goes up stairs with the plate-basket, and walked on tiptoes to his room. ‘Brittles,’ I says, when I had woke him, ‘don’t be frightened!’”