Suddenly, we brought up short near the house. There had been an old well on the place for a long time. It was, strange to say, close to the front door of the present house, which was built in a slightly different place from the old farm-house. The well had been built over, and a bird’s bath tub was on the top of it, surrounded by a clump of syringa bushes, so the pretty feathered things could bathe in the privacy that they love as much as human beings.
“The brute’s in there,” hissed Cannie between the two broken-off teeth, knocked out by the amiable Fifeson.
At that instant, I felt a soft impact against my throat, and mighty glad I was that I stood on good terms with Gringo.
The old fellow had slipped down from his master’s bedroom by the winding staircase that led from an upper to a lower veranda. Mr. Bonstone never shut up, by night or by day, the best friend he had. He was at liberty to roam all over the farm if he wished.
Gringo’s old lay-back nose wasn’t as good as mine, but he felt that friends were abroad, and he was right on the spot to help us if necessary.
“It’s Fifeson,” I said. “I might have known he was near, for Amarilla has been trembling all day. She’s as sensitive as a baby.”
“What’s up with Fifeson?” asked Gringo.
“I guess he’s all right,” I said, “but we’re watching. He’s in that syringa bush.”
Well, there we sat for a short time—King Harry, Gringo, Czarina, Cannie, Yeggie, Weary Winnie and myself. The Frenchmen didn’t turn out.
The air was so clear that we could hear every word spoken on the veranda. Though it was late, a neighbour and his wife were calling on the Bonstones, and we could hear the clink of glass, as bottles and glasses touched each other.