Uncle Peter gave her his bow and arrow with full instructions how
to shoot if danger threatened, and Tacks carefully rubbed the steps
leading up to the piazza with soap so the burglar would fall and
break his neck. Then the little shrimp called my attention to his
handiwork and demonstrated its availability by slipping thereon
himself and going the whole distance on his face. He didn't break
his neck, however, so to my mind his burglar alarm failed to make
good.

As time wore on I felt more and more like a mock turtle being led
to the soup house.

The fact that Bunch was sore worried me, and I began to realize
that it was now only a question of a few hours when I'd have to
crawl up to Clara J. and hand in my resignation.

Every time I drew a picture of that scene and heard myself telling
her I was nothing but a fawn-colored four-flush I could see my
future putting on the mitts and getting ready to hand me one.

And when I thought of the dish of fairy tales I had cooked for that
girl I could feel something running around in my head and trying to
hide. I suppose it was my conscience.

At the brook, Uncle Peter began to throw out hints that he was the
original lone fisherman. The lobster never lived that could back
away from him, and as for fly-casting, well, he was Piscatorial
Peter, the Fancy Fish Charmer from Fishkill.