And they tenderly laid me away—with a brick.
“I’ll ‘lay’ you away!”
Poppy suddenly dropped his game.
“The point is, kid, that we’re harder than nails. Our middle name is dynamite. When we hits ’em, they lay. And while this may be a disappointment to you, I’ll have to tell you outright that we don’t intend to move out of here to-night. So, if you want to stay here, yourself, the less you blow around about putting us out, the better it will be for you. Do you git me?”
The doctor driving away, Ma called us to supper, and what do you know if fatty didn’t have the nerve to park himself at the table along with the rest of us!
“It’s his scheme,” says Poppy, when we were outside, “to wait here for his old man.”
“He’ll have a long wait,” I laughed, thinking of how we were going to coop up the fat lawyer in the bottle room.
“Maybe we ought to lock the kid up, too,” came thoughtfully. “Then he won’t be able to give us away.”
I caught on. With the kid in the house, we couldn’t very well let on afterwards that the granddaughter had been there when it was known to him that she wasn’t. Yet I didn’t like the idea of locking him up. Too much of this “locking-up” stuff would get us into trouble.
“Say, Poppy,” I laughed, as a crazy idea began to stagger around in my head. “Do you want to do the trick up right?”