“It’s the biler busted, Mary!” shivered and sobbed the cook.
“Oh no, it’s master being murdered,” gasped Mary; “I know it is. Ennery! Ennery! Ennery!” she cried, banging at the frail partition wall to arouse Buttons, who at last condescended to wake up and knock in answer.
“Oh! do get up and go down; there’s something the matter!” cried Mary and Cook together.
“Oh, ah! you go,” came back in muffled tones from the sweet youth.
“Oh, do go, there’s a good boy!” said Cook sweetly; “do go down and see.”
“Ah! I dessay,” said Buttons, recalling the morning’s treatment.
A compromise was at length effected, and the three domestics stood upon the top of the staircase gazing down, while the moon looked sideways at them through the skylight.
“Ah! I see you!” cried Cook to an imaginary burglar. “You’d better go: here’s the perlice a-coming,” which was a great fib of Mrs Cook’s, for there was not a policeman near; though, from the lady’s tones and confident way of speaking, it might have been imagined that there was a police barracks on the roof, just within call.
“Cook!” cried a faint voice.
“There. I know’d it was!” cried Mary. “It’s master, half killed.”