"Oh, over the wall. We're highwaymen, and we've got a way of our own."
"Oh, he's over there, all muddy, tryin' to clean himself. He's a deal worse than me," said Sandy cheerfully.
"He must indeed be bad, then. What do you propose to do?"
"That's it. We can't get back to the pantry window now our way's gone," said artless Sandy. "Not in at all, not wivout knockin' at the door. I did think p'raps"--persuasively--"you cud come and knock."
"Then, when you was talkin' to father, we cud slip in. Don't fink father would see--not to notice."
"How long have you been highwaymen?" the Bishop asked.
"On'y about a week--and this is a sickener," said Sandy disgustedly. "We was ghosts for a bit at first--till a woman screeched so we nearly got caught, stupid fing!"
And the Bishop, remembering certain reports that had been made to him, was pleased with his acumen in refusing to call in the police.
"If I were you, I should try a better line of business," he said. "Ghosts frighten silly women, and highwaymen are not very creditable, on the whole."
"Yes," agreed Sandy. "We're goin' to. Next we're goin' to be pioneers and settlers."
"Ah, I see. And where are you going to settle?"
Sandy's bright eyes were turned suspiciously to the kind ones looking down upon him. He fidgeted uneasily, and a smile came across the Bishop's face.
"I see," he said. "Perhaps you have not yet made up your minds."
Sandy looked uncomfortable. "Not 'zactly," he confessed. "Truth is, it depends--I don't fink Dave would like me to tell. It's such a grand plan," he went on enthusiastically, "it 'ud be such a pity----"
"To have it spoilt. Well, don't get into more mischief than you can help," the Bishop cautioned, "and don't do anything to make your mother uneasy."
"Mother? Oh, mother'll laugh--she always does. You see, the bother is," confided Sandy, "there ain't no places to pioneer--every bit's taken. An' we've on'y just thought on it; an' it's splendid. We want a girl badly, though. Margie? No, Margie's no good. Settlers has wives an' squaws," went on Sandy pensively, "and we've on'y got Barbe lately, an' she's aw'fly little. 'Sides, you have to take such care on her--she's the on'y one Mr. Pelham's got. There's a lot of us, but mother says she cudn't spare not the littlest bit of one. So much less him his one, an' such a little one. It's a 'sponsibility," sighed Sandy, "when you want to do fings."