"Bob, my boy, we have just got about three-quarters of an hour to live.
When these villains come back, and find that you've been humbugging
them, they'll brain us on the spot, as sure as my name is John Brown and
yours is Robert Smith--romantic names, both of 'em; especially when
associated with the little romance in which we are now involved. Ha!
ha! ha!"
I shrank back from my friend with the terrible dread, which had more
than once crossed my mind, that he was going mad.
"Oh, Jack, don't laugh, pray. Could we not invent some secret to tell
them?"
"Not a bad idea," returned my friend, gravely.
"Well, let us think; what could we say?"
"Ay, that's the rub! Suppose we tell them seriously that my wooden leg
is a ghost, and that it haunts those who ill-treat its master, giving
them perpetual bangs on the nose, and otherwise rendering their lives
miserable?"