“Ah, well, suppose you give it to me, or else the light! The two don’t go well together. They always quarrel, and it ends in what Mr O’Gallagher in Perceval Keene called a blow up.”
I gave him the can, and then listened to the muttering of voices outside, half expecting that an attempt might be made to scale the wall.
“No,” said Uncle Jack; “they will not do that. They don’t make open attacks.”
“Did you see who the others were?”
“No, it was too dark. There, let’s get inside. But about that trap. I won’t leave it there.”
I walked with him in silence, and lighted him while he dragged the iron peg out of the ground, and carried all back to the office, where he examined the trap, turning it over and over, and then throwing it heavily on the floor.
He looked hard at me then, and I suppose my face told tales.
“I thought so,” he said; “that was your game, Master Cob.”
“Yes,” I said; “but I thought it was taken up. I told Uncle Bob to take it up when I went to London.”
“He thought you meant the trap of the drain,” cried Uncle Jack, roaring with laughter. “He had the bricklayer to it, and said there was a bad smell, and it was well cleaned out.”