He finished crawling through the window, and stood looking dejectedly down at his stocking feet.
"What does this mean, George?" said my grandmother, ironically. "Are you having nightmare, and did you think we might wish to go for a drive?"
Old George never liked to be laughed at. He drew himself up. "I'm a burglar, missus," he said, with dignity.
My grandmother's bright, black eyes twinkled under the lace frills of her nightcap. "Oho, are you indeed? Then you belong to a dangerous class,—one to which actions speak louder than words," she said, calmly; and putting one hand under her pillow, she drew out something that I had never known she kept there.
I thought at the time it was a tiny, shining revolver, but it really was a bit of polished water-pipe with a faucet attached; for my grandmother did not approve of the use of firearms.
"'I AIN'T FIT TO DIE,' CRIED OLD GEORGE."
"Oh, missus, don't shoot—don't shoot! I ain't fit to die," cried old George, dropping on his knees.
"I quite agree with you," she said, coolly, laying down her pretended revolver, "and I am glad you have some rag of a conscience left. Now tell me who put you up to this. Some woman, I'll warrant you!"