"Just fine!" she exclaimed. "But, Jimmy, dare we risk it?"
The boy's face altered; for a moment he looked quite serious.
"No," said he. "It's not good enough. I don't mind for myself, but I'm not going to get you into a row."
Peggy laughed.
"Oh, I don't care," she answered.
"It's not allowed," said Jimmy.
"It wouldn't be half such fun if it was," observed Peggy, with a world of truth. "Besides, he won't come back again to-night. He told me I was to leave the most important letters till to-morrow morning."
Jimmy was on his feet in an instant; the ledger was slammed down upon a shelf.
"Come on," he cried. "We'll have the feast of our lives."
Their cooking utensils consisted of a cheap kettle, a frying-pan, and a few knives, forks and spoons. These Peggy had hidden in a large cupboard in Rosencrantz's room, which was used as a receptacle for old account books and ledgers and all kinds of rubbish, and where their employer never by any chance happened to look. As they rescued these priceless possessions from behind a collection of office brooms and dust-pans, Jimmy noticed that the mysterious leather box--which Rosencrantz called his "attaché-case"--had been placed on the floor of the cupboard.