For men can always go on being boys playing at robbers—that’s why they never grow so old as women.
“Put the ladder back in just the same place,” chuckled the old man under his breath. “I don’t want her to find out till to-morrow morning.”
“Why, you’re not frightened?” said Sam. “Frightened of a niece?”
“No, no—course not.” Pause. “You’re not frightened of anything with a drop of something warm inside you.” Pause again and a conclusion of intense bitterness. “Barley water! She keeps me on barley water!”
“Well, I know if I’d let myself be frightened by any w——”
Faint footsteps in the lane—rapid dispersal—and when the hot Primitive reached the cottage all was in darkness and nothing seemed alive but a smell of whisky.
“Uncle!” called the hot Primitive. “Come down!”
But he had armed himself.
“Can’t, my dear. Got my trousers off.” And he repeated the formula about the apples.
“It’s Sam Petch, then. I might have known,” cried the indignant niece. “He’s an evil liver and wants to drag you down to his level.”