At last the door of the house opened and a timid female voice inquired who was calling and why he was calling.
“It’s me,” explained Mr. Connors from his perch in the tree. The explanation was candid yet it seemed insufficient.
“Who are you and what are you doing up my tree?” demanded the voice a shade more boldly.
“Is dis your tree?” apologized Mr. Connors with some irony. “I didn’t get no time to ask whose tree it was.”
“What are you doing up there?”
“Ask your dawg,” replied Mr. Connors. “He put me here.”
From the dog came a growl which entirely corroborated Mr. Connors on the point in question.
The slit of light in the door remained just wide enough to permit a shawl-wrapped head to protrude. The dog fell silent. He appeared to recognize that his was now a thinking part, but he relaxed nothing in vigilance of pose. As the parley proceeded he squatted below, ominously alert, a beast couchant waiting his cue to take again the center of the stage. There was a painful pause.
“Say,” suggested Mr. Connors at last, “if you’re skeered ter talk ter me, send out some of the men-folks. I ain’t dangerous. I won’t hurt ’em.”
“The men-folks are all away,” replied the voice, growing timid once more, “and I guess you had better stay where you are till they get home.”