“Little brutes were just ruining the garden,” said Trainor, “so I put Bert onto them. He’s just having the time of his life with that new gun I bought him.”
Ellis, seating himself at the piano with an assurance that bespoke long familiarity in that kindly, homelike household, began to idly strum. “Come, Lasses and Lads,” with a whistling accompaniment. Suddenly a shadow darkened the open door, and a mischievous voice greeted him with:
“Hello, ‘Mancatcher’! What brings you here this late along? We’d begun to think something had happened to you.”
With her great, shimmering, glorious mass of glossy black hair rippling and tumbling about her teasing, slightly sunburnt face, Mary looked like a girl of eighteen. And as she stood there, with her superb figure drawn up to its full height, she made a picture that aroused the Sergeant’s slumbering passion anew with increased fervor.
But his well-trained visage and voice evinced nothing of his feelings as he returned her pleasantry with, an answering careless:
“Why, hello, ‘Mousetrap’! Comin’ for a ride?”
Mrs. Trainor exploded with bubbling mirth.
“Why, why! whatever new nicknames are these? You two’ll be forgetting what your real names are altogether soon. I never heard such nonsense.”
“It isn’t, Mrs. Trainor,” said Ellis aggrievedly. “It’s just that—mice! I found her busy catching ’em in one of the oat bins in the stable the other day. She just catches and plays with ’em—lets ’em run, then grabs ’em again.”
“Huh!” said the girl contemptuously. “That’s nothing! I’m not afraid of mice. Poor little things. Besides, I had gauntlets on.”