“A man?” they cried in unison.
“I think so.”
“To your stations, girls!” said their mother. “Whose turn is it to-day?”
“Vicky’s,” said Esme reluctantly.
Vicky seized the lasso which hung ready to hand and, clambering through the window, stretched herself prone upon the porch roof, over the front steps. Her mother, holding the end of the rope, braced herself against the window sill for a strong pull at the proper moment.
The others scurried down the back-stairs and circled the house. Two of them took up positions in the shrubbery bordering the drive, Esme with a shot-gun, Lou with a pitchfork, to prevent the evasion of their prey. Tina reached the gate unseen, closed it, locked it and chained to it the man-eating watch-dog.
There was a moment of tense excitement, then Esme’s voice calling, “Sold again, Vicky. It’s only Papa.”
Mr. Brewer approached the house. His face was simply dressed in a full beard, à la Russe, garnished with sidewhiskers of the same.
“Anybody married since I left this morning?” he asked hopefully. There was no response. A look of deep melancholy overspread his features, his shoulders sagged visibly, the wrinkles in his bombazine coat showed plainly his desperation.