"Very well," said I, "you shall hear it; but I must drink my tea and go back to the prisoners."
"And I," said Aunt Martha, "will take some tea to them. They may be bad men, but they must not suffer."
I had been in the library but a few moments when Aunt Martha entered, followed by Alice, who bore a tray containing three very large cups of tea and some biscuit.
"Now, then," said Aunt Martha to me, "if you will untie their hands, I will give them some tea."
At these words each burglar turned his eyes on me with a quick glance. I laughed.
"Hardly," said I. "I would not be willing to undertake the task of tying them up again, unless, indeed, they will consent to drink some more of my wine."
"Which we won't do," said the middle burglar, "and that's flat."
"Then they must drink this tea with their hands tied," said Aunt Martha, in a tone of reproachful resignation, and, taking a cup from the tray, she approached the stout man and held it up to his lips. At this act of extreme kindness we were all amused, even the burglar's companions smiled, and David so far forgot himself as to burst into a laugh, which, however, he quickly checked. The stout burglar, however, saw nothing to laugh at. He drank the tea, and never drew breath until the cup was emptied.
"I forgot," said my aunt, as she removed the cup from his lips, "to ask you whether you took much or little sugar."
"Don't make no difference to me," answered the man; "tea isn't malt liquor; it's poor stuff any way, and it doesn't matter to me whether it's got sugar in it or not, but it's moistenin', and that's what I want. Now, madam, I'll just say to you, if ever I break into a room where you're sleepin', I'll see that you don't come to no harm, even if you sit up in bed and holler."