Mr. Martin, who was just undressing, came leaping down the stairs like a boy. “What is it—where is it?” he cried.
“Out on the veranda—right in the corner by the table. Oh, Daddy, it has such a dreadful voice!”
Mr. Martin snatched a big walking stick from the hat-stand in the hall and rushed into the bedroom. There was nothing there, so he jumped through the window to the veranda. Nothing there, either, but at this moment there was such a heavy peal of thunder that he sprang in again and locked the window behind him.
“We are going to have a deluge,” he said. “The tramp must have taken himself off. I see nothing of him.”
“He couldn’t have got into the house, could he?” said Mrs. Martin, who by this time had appeared and had her arm round Mary.
“No, no—Mary stood in the hall till I came. He could not have passed her, and he is not in the room.”
He looked about him as he spoke. The room was in perfect order except the bed, which was tumbled and tossed.
Our Mary suddenly gave a scream. “The
bed—I never touched it! He is in it—there’s a lump there. Father, take care.”
“Go to the hall,” said Mr. Martin, “you two—leave me to deal with him.”