"They will never come," said Clara a second time.
"Let's bait the hook," I said, trying to turn the subject into a facetious vein. "We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishes down the path to the road."
"They'll never come," said Clara obstinately.
And yet they came.
On the second of August, about two o'clock in the morning I was awakened out of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying:
"George, here's a burglar!"
I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so.
"But, George dear, he's here—in the room!"
There was something in my wife's voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed.
"Put up your hands—quick!" said a staccato voice.