At that moment I came upon an odd instalment of The Refugees, a thrilling historical romance that had haunted my memory for years. “Of course,” I agreed, with suspicious alacrity; and after that we sat together on the workshop floor, and read and read; till the shadows began to steal out from the corners, the room grew dusk and gloomy, and I looked up with straining eyes to remark,—
“Ernestine, it is simply provoking! Why will editors always break off at the most exciting spot? The Indians are attacking the blockhouse, I can’t find the next instalment, and——”
“Whoop-ee!” rang the shrill war-cry. “Whoop! Whoop! hurrah! hur-roo-o!”
For a moment I glared about me in terror. Was I in the workshop or the Canadian backwoods? Was the wildly whirling figure that pranced and capered about me, now advancing, now retreating, my own little sister Ernie, or a bloodthirsty Iroquois savage?
“I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” shrilled the jubilant song. “After all my hunts, Elizabeth! In the cuckoo-clock, under Hazard’s bed!—And to think we nearly sent it to Manila!”
“What are you talking about, Ernestine?” I demanded, severely. “No matter what you have found, you ought to be ashamed to shout so! You know that Miss Brown has a headache, and besides I quite mistook you for an Indian!”
Ernie dropped down beside me, and flung her arms about my neck. “Honey,” she breathed,—“it’s the contract,—the Dump-Cart Contract, at last! Stuck between the pages of an old copy of Cayler’s Engineering Magazine! And to think, we almost sent it to Manila!”
So! I understood. The room began to swim about me. My head sank limply to Ernie’s supporting shoulder.
I stood in the kitchen doorway and listened