"Bad dream, was it, little chap?" asked the Council, holding you close to his coat, all smoky of cigars, and patting your cheek.
"BAD DREAM, WAS IT, LITTLE CHAP?"
"F-father, where did he go?"
"Who go, my boy?"
"Why, the burglar, Father."
"There wasn't any burglar, child."
"Why, yes, Father. I saw him. Right there. Coming through the window."
And it took Father and Mother and two oatmeal crackers and a drink of water to convince you that it was all a dream. So whether it was in frightening burglars away, or keeping the street-lamps burning, or smoking cigars, or soothing a little boy with a nightmare and a fevered head, the Council was a useful body, and always came just in time.
On week-day mornings Father had gone to work when you came down-stairs, but on Sunday mornings, when you awoke, a trifle earlier if anything—