“And Bill—I mean the stranger—sitting on the beer-barrel,” said Mr. Cooper, gloomily.
“You can bring your beer with you,” said his sister, sharply. “Come along.”
Mr. Cooper grinned, and, placing a couple of bottles in his coat pockets, followed the two ladies to the house. Seated at the kitchen table, he grinned again, as a persistent drumming took place on the cellar door. His wife smiled, and a faint, sour attempt in the same direction appeared on the face of Mrs. Simpson.
“Open the door!” bellowed an indignant voice. “Open the door!”
Mrs. Simpson, commanding silence with an uplifted finger, proceeded to carve the beef. A rattle of knives and forks succeeded.
“O-pen-the-door!” said the voice again.
“Not so much noise,” commanded Mr. Cooper. “I can't hear myself eat.”
“Bob!” said the voice, in relieved accents, “Bob! Come and let me out.”
Mr. Cooper, putting a huge hand over his mouth, struggled nobly with his feelings.
“Who are you calling 'Bob'?” he demanded, in an unsteady voice. “You keep yourself to yourself. I've heard all about you. You've got to stay there till my brother-in-law comes home.”