A vision of Uncle Peter running a rusty sword into the interior department of the disguised and disgusted Bunch rose before me, but I blew it away with a laugh.

“He laughs best who laughs in his sleeve,” chuckled the old party.  “Now that we’re out in the country all of us should learn to handle a sword or a pistol.  It gives us self reliance.  It’s very different from living in the city, I tell you.  A tramp in the lock-up is worth two in the kitchen.  I shot at a mark for an hour to-day.”

“What with?” I gasped.

“With a bow and arrow I bought for Tacks yesterday directly I learned we were coming to the country.  I hit the bull’s eye five out of six times.  An ounce of prevention is worth two hundred pounds of policemen, you know.  Tacks practised, too, and drove an arrow through a strange man’s overalls and was chased half a mile for his skill in marksmanship, but, as I said before, the exercise will do him good.”

“Where do you keep this bow and arrow?” I inquired, with a studied assumption of carelessness.

“To-night I’ll keep it under my pillow. Honi soit qui oncle Pierre, which means, evil be to him who monkeys with Uncle Peter,” he said, solemnly.  “To-morrow I’m going to town to buy a bull dog revolver, maybe a bull dog and a revolver, for a dog in the manger is the noblest Roman of them all.”

I could see poor Bunch scooting across the lawn with a bunch of arrows in his ramparts and Uncle Peter behind, prodding his citadel with a carving knife.

I began to get a hunch that our plan of campaign was threatened with an attack of busy Uncle Peter, and I had just about decided to remove his door key and lock the old man up in his room when Clara J. came in to announce dinner.

Aunt Martha and Clara J. had collaborated on the dinner and it was a success.  Uncle Peter said so, and his appetite is one of those brave fighting machines that never says die till every plate is clean.

I was so nervous I couldn’t eat a bite, but I pleaded a toothache, so they all gave me the sympathetic stare and passed me up.

We went to bed early and I rehearsed mentally the stage business for the drama about to be enacted when Bunch crept through the picket lines.

About midnight a dog in the neighborhood began to hurl forth a series of the most distressing bow-bows I ever heard.  I arose, put up the window and looked out.

I saw a tall man with a bunch of whiskers on his face flying across the lot pursued by a black-and-tan pup, which snapped eagerly at the man’s heels and seemed determined to eat him up if ever the runner stopped long enough.

I felt in my bones that the one in the lead was Bunch, and I sighed deeply and went back to bed.

I must have dropped into an uneasy sleep for Clara J. was tapping me on the arm when I started up and asked the answer.

“There’s somebody in the house,” she whispered, not a bit frightened, to my surprise and dismay, “Maybe it’s only the ghost you told us about—­what a lark!”