Mr. Pindar still looked fixedly at him. "Maria!" he muttered once more. "My boyhood's knotted scourge! the most horrid child that ever—What does she want?"
"She desires to be a sister to Mr. Homer, sir," said Will, simply.
Mr. Pindar recoiled. "Perish the thought!" he exclaimed. "Sepulchred deep the curst conception lie! and you? ye seek assistance, ha?"
"We thought you might be able to help us out, sir," said Will.
"I bet you could fix her!" said Tommy.
Mr. Pindar's eyes flashed. "Your hands!" he cried. "The Dramatic Moment strikes. Ding dong! But soft; we must dissemble!"
Mr. Pindar laid his finger on his lips, and rolled his eyes on his visitors with a warning glance. Then rising, he stole with measured and elaborately noiseless steps to the door, and listened at the keyhole, then to the window, and peered out with dramatic caution; then, still with his finger on his lips, he turned to his companions.
"All is well!" he said; he waved the little bat-cloak, and then drew it round him with a flap of mystery.
"Approach!" he whispered, beckoning the two friends toward him, "Conspiracy is the soul of Drama: approach, friends, and give—or rather receive—the counter-sign!"
It was a pleasant sight to see Mr. Pindar Hollopeter, his eyes gleaming with dramatic fire, yet with a twinkle in the black depths of them, waving his arms abroad (the gesture so like his brother's, yet so unlike), expounding, suggesting, illustrating. It was pleasant, too, to see the responsive twinkle that danced and deepened in the blue and gray eyes as they met his.