"Any more on ye comin' out?" he inquired.
"No, there aren't any more of us," said Mr. Daddles, "you've got the whole gang now."
"Better wait a second, Eb," said one of the men who was holding Mr. Daddles. He was a fat man, with ears that stuck out the way an elephant's do, when he waves them. "Better wait a second,—yer can't tell."
"You'll waste your time," said Mr. Daddles, "there's no one left in there but the policemen,—and you can't wake them up from here."
"P'licemen?" queried the fat man.
"Whatcher talkin' about?" asked the man with the pitchfork.
"I'm talking about the two policemen who are getting their eight hours in the library," Mr. Daddles replied, "Poor things! I hope we didn't disturb them."
"Don't yer believe him, Eb," said another man, "it's some gum game."
"Look here," I said, "this is all a mistake. We're not burglars.
This house—"
"Yes, we know all about that," said a man, "we've heard this feller tell all about his Uncle Alfred Peabody's house. It's a fust-rate story,—only Uncle Alfred's is next door. This is T. Parker Littlefield's, an' you know it, too."