In the meantime, Sophy had waked up, and, hearing the news, could scarcely control her excitement. She flew about the room, constantly getting into Victoria’s way, begging to be helped with her innumerable buttons, and asking a thousand questions.
“What is a buggler, Vic?” she demanded. “I always thought a buggler was some kind of a bug, like a buffalo bug, or something of that sort. Is it really a real live man? And what did he want in our house? And how did he get in, Vic, with the doors all locked and bolted? I say, Vic, how did he get in?”
“I don’t know,” said Vic. “Sophy, do please get out of my way! I’m in such a hurry. Go stand by the window, there’s a good girl!”
“But won’t you tell me what a buggler is?” pleaded Sophy. “I won’t stir if you’ll only tell me.”
“It’s a robber. Do you know what that is?”
“Of course I do. That is a sensible name. Any one would know that a robber robs, but a buggler!”
“A buggler doesn’t bug,” said Victoria, laughing in spite of her hurry and dismay. “Let me tell you that it is burglar, and not buggler.”
Sophy had by this time taken up her station by the window.
“Why, Vic,” she cried, looking out, “did you know that all the vines are torn round this window? They’re just streaming! What do you s’pose has made ’em so?”
Victoria ran to look.