"Yes," said Berry, "for your own sake, dear lady, beware of him. And for ours, too, I beg you. On no account accept his proffered assistance—in the matter of the key, I mean. If he really has matches, tell him to throw them in. Adopt a hectoring tone and he will fear you. But, remember, he is as cunning as a serpent, Let but that key fall into his hands—"
"Wait till it's fallen into your own hands, old cock," said I.
"Dear lady," said Berry, "you hear his ribald—"
The rest of the sentence was drowned in the peals of laughter to which my companion at last gave vent. I joined her, and the meadow resounded with our merriment. When we had recovered a little:
"Will you have the matches?" said I, standing beneath the window, "or shall I send for the battering ram?"
"Throw them in, fathead," said my brother-in-law.
"Ask nicely, then."
"I'll see you—"
"Please, Boy, dear," cried Jill.
I laughed and pitched the box into the kitchen. The next second we heard a match struck, and the groping sounds recommenced. The girl and I strolled a little back from the window and stood, awaiting the key.