“Wait until I get this shoe on. Though if we’re going to tramp in the snow I suppose I’d better wear heavier ones.”
“You won’t need them with arctics. But isn’t it a glorious storm!”
Terry agreed that it was. The two chums finished dressing and went out in the hall to go down for breakfast, which was evidently being prepared by Moselle and her dark daughter, as testified to by the rattling of dishes and the aroma of bacon and coffee floating up.
As Terry and Arden were walking toward the stairs, they heard the door of Sim’s room open, and Dot came out, wearing a robe. She held her finger on her lips as a signal for silence.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Arden.
“She has a bad headache,” Dot replied. “She was awake a good part of the night, and she’s just fallen asleep. I thought I’d slip down and tell Moselle not to make any more noise than she can help. Sim needs quiet.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!” murmured Terry. “I wonder if there’s anything we can do?”
“No, I gave her some aspirin. She’ll be all right. If you’re going down, would you mind having that little slave bring me up some coffee? That’s all I want. I’ll be waiting out in the hall so I won’t disturb Sim by opening the door too often.”
“It’s too bad,” murmured Terry again. “Can’t you come down and have some breakfast with us?”
“No, coffee is all I’ll take. Some storm, isn’t it?”