"Matter enough. There's robbers downstairs."
Now the deacon was broad awake.
"Robbers!" he exclaimed. "Pooh! Nonsense! You're dreamin', wife."
Just then there was another racket. Sam, in trying to effect his escape, tumbled over a chair, and there was a yell of pain.
"Am I dreaming now, deacon?" demanded his wife, triumphantly.
"You're right, wife," said the deacon, turning pale, and trembling. "It's an awful situation. What shall we do?"
"Do? Go downstairs, and confront the villains!" returned his wife, energetically.
"They might shoot me," said her husband, panic-stricken. "They're—they're said to be very desperate fellows."
"Are you a man, and won't defend your property?" exclaimed his wife, taunting him, "Do you want me to go down?"
"Perhaps you'd better," said the deacon, accepting the suggestion with alacrity.