“This is a pretty how-to-do,” says she, speaking up loud like she did on wash-days, or times she took a stick and drove the boys to the wood-pile. “What’s going on in this house to-night? fires, and candles burning, and travellers putting up, and children running away when they’re let go some place else to stay all night! You little sneak,” says she, “you’ll get one such a whipping as you ached for when your mother was alive.”
“Stop, stop,” says the Whizzer peaceably.
“What are you doing in this house?” says cousin Andy Sanders. “Are you the man I saw go past my place to-night on that wheel, pulling the children?”
“I am,” says the Whizzer, “and I’ve been making notes of the personal property that has been carried out of the house.”
“Well,” says uncle Moze, “I’m the constable and this is my posse.”
The Whizzer laughed, and he says, “This thornbush is my thornbush, and this dog my dog.”
I did not know what he meant and they acted as if they did not either.
“I arrest you,” says uncle Moze, “for breaking into a house and disturbing the peace.”