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