Jim gave me a sagacious nod, and commenced going on all fours behind the fence.
Little "Biddy," as her pretended mother called her, filled her apron with the pears and we started across the field to where Bridget still sat, perched upon the garden fence, with her hand organ unstrapped at her feet.
I emptied the pears in her lap, and she thanked me in her uncouth way, between the big mouthsful, and sat down on the grass with Biddy.
Presently I asked her if she would like some ginger beer; of course she said yes, and of course I had to go into the kitchen to get it, and of course I found Jim there, and telling him my story in a dozen words, he brought his hand down with a thump on his waistband, exclaiming,
"Je-ru-sa-lem!"
When Jim said that you might know he was going to do something terrible!
Well, I went back with the beer, and just as Bridget was tipping the glass up to her thick lips, Jim bounded behind her like a panther, and held her arms tight while I took little Biddy and scampered into the house.
Having locked little Biddy safe in my chamber, I returned and picked up off the grass, two silver spoons of Jim's mother's, that Bridget had taken from the parlor closet while we were getting the pears.
That gave us a right to shut her up in jail—to say nothing of her carrying off poor little Biddy—and you may be sure that Jim was not long in sending her there, spite of her vociferations that, "If there was law in the counthry she'd have the right of him yet, for meddling with an honest woman like Bridget Fliligan."
"Thank you for telling us your name," said Jim, coolly; "it is just what we wanted to know."