"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.