As the criminal sluggyly emerged from the cellar the spectators stoodback, spellbound and breathless; Aunt Martha with a long tin dipperraised in an attitude of defense, and Uncle Peter with the bow andarrow ready for instant use.

These war-like precautions were unnecessary, however. Bunch was asight. His clothing had accumulated all the mud in the unfinishedcellar and his false whiskers were skewed around, giving his facethe expression of a prize gorilla.

Bunch glanced at me reproachfully, but never opened his head. Say!if ever there was a dead game sport, Bunch Jefferson is the answer.