“Then,” put in Mamma, “while we’re safe, we’d better make him safe.”
“Don’t git in a hurry, old un; we want a better understandin’ afore we tackle his case. Come, old rook, git up here, an’ let’s take our bearings.”
He perched himself upon the rickety table, and Papa and Mamma drew the stools up close and seated themselves thereon.
“Now then,” began Franz, “who did yon nipped cove come here to see, you or me, old un? He ’pears to know a little about us both.”
“Yes,” assented Papa, “so he does.”
“What he knows about me, I reckon he told,” resumed Franz. “Now, what’s the killin’ affair mentioned?”
Papa seemed to ponder a moment, and then lifted his eyes to his son’s face with a look of bland ingenuousness.
“It’s a kind of delicate affair, my boy,” he began, in a tone of confidential frankness, “but ’twon’t do for us to have secrets from each other—will it, old woman?”
“No,” said Mamma; “Franzy’s our right hand now. You ort to tell him all about it.”
“Oh, git along,” burst in Franz. “Give us the racket, an’ cut it mighty short—time enough for pertikelers later.”