Then he'd throw his ears back and let a chortle out of his
thirst-teaser that made the neighborhood jump sideways and rubber
for a cop.

"What are you going to do?" he asked me when presently his face
grew too tired to hold any more wrinkles.

[Illustration: Uncle Peter--the Original Trust Tamer.]

"Give me the count," I sighed; 'I'm down and out."

"Have you no plan at all?" inquired Bunch.

"Plan, nothing," I said; "every time I try to think of a plan my
brain gets bashful and hides. There's nothing in my noddle now but
a headache."

"Well," said Bunch, "I'll throw a wire at my sister and tell her
not to move out to Jiggersville until day after to-morrow. In the
mean time we'll have to get a crowbar and pry your family circle
loose from my premises. Nothing doing in the ghost business, eh?"

"Nothing," I answered, mournfully; "I couldn't coax a shiver."

"A fire wouldn't do, would it?" Bunch suggested, thoughtfully.

"It wouldn't do for you, unless you are aces with the insurance
Indians," I answered.

"We-o-o-u-w!" yelled Bunch, "I have it--burglars!"