“Well,—I—anyway, Katherine, the door is shut.”
“It won’t be hard to open,—why can’t you—?”
“Yes, I can open it,” Peggy answered, stepping into the entrance hall where the glasses of cider and the little packs of ginger cookies were usually sold, “but there’s no one here now that we’re in, and it looks more deserted than ever and there isn’t even a crumb of a ginger cooky—and I’m starved, nor a sip of cider—and I’m thirsty!”
“Why, this is Saturday, too. What do you suppose is wrong, Peggy? I’m absolutely dead, if I must confess it. I can’t possibly walk home without a cool drink of cider to brace me up. I never was so hungry and tired in my life.”
“That’s his house, I think,” Peggy nodded across the road toward a comfortable-looking farm house.
“Do you suppose the cider man would be home?”
“Anyway,” Peggy said faintly, “his wife would, and she might have some ginger cookies.”
They hurried down the walk and shuffled across the dusty road, feeling that if they were disappointed now they could scarcely bear it.
They went to the side door of the farm house and knocked timidly.
“Oh, Peggy, they’re eating!” gasped Katherine. “I feel like a tramp. I almost wish I was one, too, and then maybe they’d invite us in. But isn’t it a late time to be having dinner?”