these boys on him," the visitor shouted, waving an antiquated pair
of handcuffs excitedly in the air.

Tacks watched him open-mouthed. That boy was having the time of
his life and it would have pleased me immeasurably to paddle him to
sleep with Harmony's night stick.

"I caught him!" Tacks cried in exultant tones when the village
copper looked his way; "he's down there."

"Down there, eh?" snorted the country Sherlock, getting on his
knees and peering into the depths, but just then Bunch handed him a
handful of hard mud which located temporarily over Harmony's left
eye and put his optic on the blink.

With the other eye, however, Mr. Diggs caught a glimpse of a step
ladder, which he immediately lowered through the trap, and drawing
a murderous looking revolver from his pocket, commanded Bunch to
come up or be shot.

Bunch decided to come up. I didn't hold the watch on him, but I
figure it took him about seven-sixteenths of a second to make the
decision.

As the criminal slowly emerged from the cellar the spectators stood
back, spellbound and breathless; Aunt Martha with a long tin dipper
raised in an attitude of defense, and Uncle Peter with the bow and
arrow ready for instant use.

These war-like precautions were unnecessary, however. Bunch was a