The immediate result of this latest of Gran'pa's outbreaks was that he stopped in his dug-out all night! About eleven o'clock that evening, after Molly had had a hot bath and gone to bed, I cooled down sufficiently to go out and see what had become of him. And there he was--crouched pathetically in front of a bright stick fire, looking like the sole survivor of some lost tribe of ancient wanderers. His head was in his hands, his beard hung tragically between his knees, and his back was bent in a dismal arch of resignation under the bludgeonings of Fate. But the moment I tried to persuade him to behave like a reasonable man and come indoors, his attitude changed to one of stark, brute fury. He sprang to his feet and stood glaring and growling at me, as if he were some wild animal at bay. The firelight danced on his muddy and saturated clothes, and threw a weird, jumping, ape-like shadow on the wall of the dug-out. His eyes shone like balls of fire. "Get out!" he said hoarsely. And then, with an ominous calm: "_By God!_ if you don't, I'll brain you!" He seized a huge, twisted branch, whose one end had been helping to feed the fire, and waved it, torch-like, in my face. I floundered backwards, through the mud and water until I reached the level of the garden above. "Gran'pa!" I implored. "For heaven's sake. . . ." "Go--when I tell you!" he screamed, emerging into the open. "I will _not_ return to that house!" "But . . . you can't stay here. . . ." I began, again. "Who's going to stop me?" "You're wet through. Do remember your age, and be reasonable. This is absurd! . . . I don't understand. . . ." "Oh! Go to blazes! I've had enough of your insults and bickerings. I shall stay here until the morning. Then I shall leave this benighted house and country and return to the States! Do you understand _that_?" He returned to his shelter, thrust his weapon of attack back into the fire again, and took up an alert and threatening attitude, showing not the remotest sign of a compromise. "Very well!" I said. I went indoors again, flabbergasted at this tremendous burst of passionate resentment and childish obstinacy. I thought of obtaining the help of a doctor, or a neighbor, or the police; but to tell the truth I was afraid that if Gran'pa were removed from his dugout by force he might lose his mental balance altogether and become a raving maniac. For the time being, there seemed to be nothing that I could do. On the other hand, it was hopeless to think of going to bed. With Molly showing signs of having caught a very severe cold, with Nanny determined to leave me next day, and with Gran'pa crouching in that damp and miserable shelter down the garden, it would have been impossible for me to sleep a wink. The whole of my little, orderly world was topsy-turvy. In my misery, I cursed science in general; I cursed Alfred the gorilla; I cursed Dr. Croft; and I even cursed Sir James Barrie for writing "Peter Pan."