“It’s on me! It’s on me!” cried Susan, shuddering and shaking. “It’s a mouse! It’s a mouse!”
“It isn’t on you,” said Phil. “Don’t cry, Susan. I saw him go in the closet. I’ll fix him, you see.”
With a bravery worthy of a better cause Phil opened the closet door, struck one of his precious matches, threw it into the closet after the mouse, and firmly shut the door.
“There now,” said he. “I fixed him.”
“What did you do?” quavered Susan, opening one eye. “Are you sure he isn’t on me? Look.”
“I killed him,” returned Phil briefly.
“How?”
“I burned him up,” answered Phil in a deep voice.
“Really?” said Susan, awed. “But won’t it set the house on fire?”
“No,” said Phil stoutly. “It won’t. I mean I don’t think it will. Maybe we had better look and see. You look, Susan.”