As dusk came on, the five young people gathered in the Mortons’ kitchen to prepare supper. Chet, who loved to eat, was in charge, and doled out various jobs to the others. When he finished, Joe remarked, “And what are you going to do, big boy?”
The stout youth grinned. “I’m the official taster.”
A howl went up from the others. “No workee, no eatee,” said Iola flatly.
Chet grinned. “Oh, well, if you insist, I’ll make a little side dish for all of us. How about Welsh rabbit?”
“You’re elected!” the others chorused, and Chet set to work.
The farmhouse kitchen was large and contained a group of windows in one corner. Here stood a large table, where the young people decided to eat. They had just sat down when the telephone rang. Chet got up and walked out in the hall to answer it. Within a minute he re-entered the kitchen, his eyes bulging.
“What’s the matter?” Iola asked quickly.
“I- I’ve been th-threatened!” Chet replied.
“Threatened!” the others cried out. “How?”
Chet was so frightened he could hardly speak, but he managed to make the others understand that a man had just said on the telephone, “You’ll never get your jalopy back. And if you don’t lay off trying to find me or your car, you’re going to get hurt!”