head, and whip his waiting horses to a gallop. No, he must beat the tall
grasses before the old homestead until such time as she chose to walk
abroad alone. Really, when you came to think of it, it was an asinine
sort of proposition.

But when Mary did come out of that house, he saw that the fun would
begin. A well brought-up, moneyed, petted and curled girl of twelve was
no easy pawn in anybody's game. He could not win her love by a mere
offer of gum-drops. In fact, getting acquainted was likely to be a
difficult matter, taxing his ingenuity to a standstill. But he
entertained no doubts of his ability to do it, sooner or later.

"Not to put too fine a point on it," mused he, glancing out of his
twentieth story window, "they flock to me, children do. I'm their good
old Uncle Dudley. But why the deuce isn't she five years younger?"

Clearly, it was the next step that was the most delicate: getting Mary
aboard the yacht. This was both the crux and the _finale_ of the whole
thing: for Uncle Elbert was to be waiting for them, in a closed
carriage, at a private dock near 130th Street (Peter remaining in
Hunston to notify him by telephone of the start down), and Varney's
responsibilities were over when the _Cypriani_ turned her nose homeward.
But here lay the thin ice. If anything should happen to go wrong at the
moment when they were coaxing Mary on the yacht, if there was a leak in
their plans or anybody suspected anything, he saw that the situation
might be exceedingly awkward. The penalties for being fairly caught with
the goods promised to be severe. As to kidnapping, he certainly
remembered reading in the newspapers that some States punished it with
death. At any rate, maybe the natives would try to thrash him and Peter.
In hopeful moments he conjured up visions of the deuce to pay.