“I don’t know. I’ve never had one before,” I moaned.
“Didn’t you once tell me you had a bell, or something of the sort?” said Ursula.
“Why, yes; I had forgotten that.” I keep a huge bell under the bed at the head, and I always intended to ring it violently out of the window if a burglar ever came. (Scrape, scrape, scrape, continued down below.) “I don’t suppose anyone on these hills would wake up to listen; but, at any rate, it might worry the burglar and send him off.”
“Let’s ring it now,” said Virginia eagerly, “and then, when he is well outside the gate, of course, we’ll let the dog run out after him.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But first I want to go into Eileen’s room, and peep out of her window and see who is below. Her window is just over the scullery door, and is always open at night. If it is anyone from the district—though I don’t believe it is—I should recognise him.”
So we tip-toed into Eileen’s room, where she lay sound asleep.
“When I give the signal, you ring,” I said.
Cautiously, slowly, silently, I got my head a little further and further out of the window, shaking with ague from head to foot. And there I saw the burglar—he was Farmer Jones’s dog (alias the wolf, you remember), and he had got hold of a sardine tin that had been emptied that day. He was having a lovely time, licking that tin out, and as he licked, so it scraped and scraped on the stones. No wonder my own dog did not bark; he knew it was his ancient enemy without, and the instinct of the dog of war was to wait stealthily till the foe should get within his reach.
“Don’t ring the bell!” I whispered hoarsely, and we crept out of the room.
“I think it’s just as well Eileen did not wake,” I said, as we made ourselves a midnight cup of tea before turning in again, “for I’ve no desire to hear this episode being related all day long at the kitchen door!”