"I thought of the matches, but I certainly covered 'em up tight."
They snuffed again,—first one, then the other,—now a series of quick, short snuffs, then one long, deep snuff, then a snuff by both together, as if by uniting their energies, like two persons pulling at a rope, they might accomplish what neither was equal to singly.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Ducklow.
"Why, what, father?"
"It's Thaddeus! He's been walkin' in his sleep. That's what we heard. And now he's got the matches and set the house afire!"
He bounded out of bed; he went stumbling over the chairs in the kitchen, and clattering among the tins in the pantry, and rushing blindly and wildly up the kitchen stairs, only to find the matches all right, Taddy fast asleep, and no indications anywhere, either to eye or nostril, of anything burning.
"'Twas all your imagination, mother!"
"My imagination! You was jest as frightened as I was. I'm sure I can't tell what it was I smelt; I can't smell it now. Did you feel for the—you know what?"
Mrs. Ducklow seemed to think there were evil ones listening, and it was dangerous to mention by name what was uppermost in the minds of both.
"I wish you would jest put your hand and see if they're all right; for I've thought several times I heard somebody taking on 'em out."