“I guess you’re right,” said Fred. “See, here’s the cellar. I won’t grumble because I walked into that column of bricks—if I hadn’t we might have both stepped into that cellar, and that wouldn’t have been any fun.”
Carefully and feeling each step of the way, they skirted the open cellar. The wind and the snow made going very slow, and the twinkling light seemed to come no nearer.
“Want to stop and get your breath, Polly?” asked Fred, a little anxiously, when they had been walking some minutes in silence.
“I’m—all—right,” gasped Polly. “But I’ve got my scarf tied over my mouth to keep the wind out. I can’t talk.”
They plodded on after that, and to Fred’s delight the light came nearer and nearer at last. Soon they could see that it shone from the window of a house and streamed feebly out on a broken picket fence.
“At least they’re at home,” said Fred, thankfully. “You can stay and get warm, Polly, and I’ll go back and get the others.”
He was sure their troubles were over, and he rapped loudly on the door with visions of a hot supper dancing before his eyes.
No one answered his knock, and he rapped again. Still silence.
“We’ll both knock,” said Polly, and the two of them beat a tattoo on the door.
“Some one’s coming,” whispered Polly. “Hark!”