“Looked like murder to me,” said Hiram, chuckling, “but I suppose that ain’t the answer.” Just then Bobby stuck his head in the door.
“We think it’s only fair to you,” he said, bowing to his aunt, and casting a glance beyond her into the darkness where sat the Greens, “to tell you that there were three syllables to the first act—there’ll be two to this next one—and one to the last.”
“Three syllables—that settles it—murder’s only got two,” remarked Hiram, solemnly. “Well, I’ve guessed wrong the first time. Got any light on it, Miss Hetty?”
“I’m not sure, of course, Hiram,” said Miss Pomeroy, with a laugh, “but I have the glimmer of an idea.”
Hiram’s chuckle ended abruptly as the door opened to admit Polly, bearing a slate, on which was drawn an irregular-shaped object, from the top of which a long line curved off to one edge of the slate.
“I call that a pin-quishion,” said Hiram, meditatively, “or else a balloon. I don’t know which. It’s first-rate for either one.”
“It isn’t,” said Polly; then she blushed, shook her head, and ran out of the room, to be received by her partner in the hall with a good deal of reproach.
“I seem to be sinking in deeper every time,” said Hiram, in a loud voice, intended to reach the other hall. “Murder—quishion is the nearest I’ve come.”
“In this next scene you’ve got to pretend you’re all English,” said the boy, pausing on the threshold before he and Polly entered, “for that’s the only way we can make it come out right.”
“Pretty short notice for a man that’s never been thirty miles from home,” said Mr. Green, in a melancholy tone.