“Here, all you kids!” commanded our field marshal, as she picked up Diogenes, 51 “beat it to the kitchen, and I’ll give you some breakfast. Hustle up!”
The Polydores, whose eyes were bulging with expectancy and semi-starvation, tumbled over each other in their eagerness to “hustle up and beat it to the kitchen.” Our oiler of troubled waters followed, and there was assurance of a brief lull.
“What shall we do!” I exclaimed helplessly when the door had closed on the last Polydore. I felt too limp and impotent to cope with the situation. Not so Silvia.
“Do!” she echoed with an intensity of tone and feeling I had never known her to display. “Do! We’ll do something, I am sure! I will not for a moment submit to such an imposition. Who ever heard of such colossal nerve! That father and mother should be brought back and prosecuted. I shall report them to the Society 52 for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. But we won’t wait for such procedure. We’ll express each and every Polydore to them at once.”
“I should certainly do that P.D.Q. and C.O.D.,” I acquiesced, “if the Polydore parents could be located, but you know the abodes of aborigines are many and scattered.”
My remarks seemed to fall as flat as the flapjacks I was siruping.
Silvia arose, determination in every lineament and muscle, and crossed the room. She opened the door leading into the kitchen.
“Ptolemy,” she demanded, “where have your father and mother gone?”
He came forward and replied in a voice somewhat smothered by cakes and sirup.
“I don’t know. They didn’t say.”