"We'll take the chance--and let her know." Peter's bristling Airedale whiskers, standing out like a bunch of broom splints about his face, quivered sympathetically, and he thumped his tail in the sand.

He was an artful hypocrite, was Peter, because he always looked as if he understood, whether he did or not.

And Jolly Roger, staring at the gray rock-backs outside their tunnel door, went on.
"We must play square with her, Pied-Bot, and it's a crime worse than murder not to let her know the truth.

If she wasn't a kid, Peter! But she's that--just a kid--the sweetest, purest thing God A'mighty ever made, and it isn't fair to live this lie any longer, no matter how we love her.

And we do love her, Peter." Peter lay very quiet, watching the strange gray look that had settled in Jolly Roger's face.
"I've got to tell her that I'm a damned highwayman," he added, in a moment.