“All right!” said Andy, and he dashed downstairs.
“What’s he going to do?” ejaculated Susan, in surprise.
“Heaven only knows! How can he talk of hot water when there’s a burglar in the house? Lock the door, Sister Susan.”
“I don’t like to shut out poor Andy,” said Susan, in a distressed voice. “It’s my belief we shall find him a mangled corpse to-morrow morning, when we go downstairs.”
“I shan’t dare to go down at all. Oh, Susan, this is awful!”
Leaving the agitated spinsters in their trouble and terror, we must look after Andy.
He ran downstairs, seized the teakettle from the stove, grabbed a tin dipper, and then ran up to his chamber again.
He was just in time.
There, before the window, stood Mike Hogan, with the club in his hand and a look of triumph on his face. In the dim light, he did not see the teakettle.
“Well, my little bantam,” said he, “here I am again!”