The kid still keeping silent, we heard the angry caveman get out of bed. Then a record that had been jerked from the silenced talking machine whizzed over the top of our heads.
Thump! thump! thump! A lame old man now stood, cane in hand, in the door of the cave. He had on a long white nightgown, and never in all my life had I seen another such bristly, mussed-up head of hair. He had whiskers, too—the “fringy” kind, stretching from ear to ear, with the chin and upper lip left bare. And what a grim, hard lip it was! Looking at him, as he stood there in the moonlight, I could imagine that the kid was in for a good beating.
“Tommy Weir! You git in here, now. Or I’ll come out there an’ lay it on you good an’ proper.”
To our surprise the kid got up laughing.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Abner?”
“You young scallawag! Gittin’ your pore ol’ uncle out of his comfortable bed at this time of night. Hain’t you ’shamed of yourself!”
“I wanted to tell you something, Uncle Abner,” says the kid seriously.
“Um.... You could ’a’ let it wait till mornin’.”
“No.”
“Tommy!” cried the old man in sudden excitement. “You hain’t meanin’ that you’ve found it?”