“On purpose,” interrupted Ranty.
“Or say he was shot by mistake—so he was, you know.”
“All right! I’ll fix it up; trust me to get up a work of fiction founded on fact, at a moment’s notice! Here we are at the cottage. Now for it!”
Ranty knocked, and again the window up above was raised; and the same sable head, a second time aroused from its slumbers, was protruded, and in sharp, irritated tones demanded:
“Who’s dar now, I’d like ter know?”
“A mighty polite beginning,” muttered Ranty—then raising his voice—“it’s me, Lucy—Ranty Lawless.”
“Ugh! might have known it was a Lawless! Never seed such a rampageous set—comin’ and rousin’ people out der beds dis hour de night. Fust de sister, den de brudder; fust de ’un, den de udder,” scolded Lucy, quite unconscious she was making poetry; “what in de name of Marster does yer want?”
“To get in, you sooty goblin!” shouted Master Ranty, in a rage. “Come down and open the door, and let us in; don’t stand there asking questions.”
“Belay your jawing tackle!” roared the admiral, in a voice like distant thunder.
“Deed, I won’t den! Does yer tink I’s no sort o’ ’steem for myself to go lettin’ in men dis hour de night? I hasn’t lived forty odd years to come to dis in my old ages o’ life.” And down the window went with a bang.