"Hit's a man, Miss Dimple," she said, in an
excited whisper, "with a gre't big haid an' long hair, an' somethin' on
his back."
Florence and Dimple looked at each other. "Let's peep and see,"
whispered the latter, as the rapping, which had ceased, began again.
They peeped timidly through the shutters. "He looks queer," said Dimple,
"maybe he is crazy."
"Oh!" cried Florence, with a stifled scream, "maybe he is an escaped
lunatic. Dimple, let's lock all the doors, and hide," and the two ran
into the kitchen, barring and locking the door, and then raced upstairs
as fast as they could go, with Bubbles close following at their heels.
Florence buried her face in the pillows and covered up her head with the
bed clothes; Bubbles crawled under the bed, then, as the rapping
continued louder than before, interspersed with calls of "Hey, there!
Hey, there!" Dimple, feeling very brave, opened the window and cried
out, "Go away!" then she shut down the window with a slam, and sprang
into the middle of the room with very red cheeks and a beating heart.
After a little time all was quiet, and the three timidly ventured
downstairs to find the pie baked to such a crisp brownness, that it
barely escaped being called black. It was set aside to cool, and after a
short parley, the children set out to reconnoitre, armed with such
weapons as they thought most useful.
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