“The bug, the bug!” I cried; “the bug under the tumbler.”
“Bugs in tumblers!” cried the girls; “not our tumblers, papa? You have not been putting bugs into our tumblers? Oh, what does—what does it all mean?”
“Do you see this hole, this crack here?” said I, putting my finger on the spot.
“That I do,” said my wife, with high displeasure. “And how did it come there? What have you been doing to the table?”
“Do you see this crack?” repeated I, intensely.
“Yes, yes,” said Julia; “that was what frightened me so; it looks so like witch-work.”
“Spirits! spirits!” cried Anna.
“Silence!” said my wife. “Go on, sir, and tell us what you know of the crack.”
“Wife and daughters,” said I, solemnly, “out of that crack, or hole, while I was sitting all alone here last night, a wonderful—”
Here, involuntarily, I paused, fascinated by the expectant attitudes and bursting eyes of Julia and Anna.