But Edred couldn’t. He laid hands on the chest, of course, and he pulled and Elfrida pulled, but the chest-lid was as fast now as any of the others.
“Done in the eye!” said Edred. It was a very vulgar expression, and I can’t think where he picked it up.
“‘He that will not when he may,
He shall not when he would—a,’”
said Elfrida—and I do know where she learned that. It was from an old song Mrs. Honeysett used to sing when she blackleaded the stoves.
“I suppose we must chuck it for to-day,” said Edred, when he had quite hurt his fingers by trying all the chests once more, and had found that every single one was shut tight as wax. “Come on—we’ll print the photographs.”
But the films were not dry enough. They never are when you just expect them to be; so they locked the still-room door on the outside, and hung the key on a nail high up in the kitchen chimney. Mrs. Honeysett was not in the kitchen at that moment, but she came hurrying in the next.
“Here you are, my lambs,” she said cheerily, “and just in time for the surprise.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten the surprise. That makes two of it, doesn’t it?” said Elfrida. “Do tell us what it is. We need a nice surprise to make up for everything, if you only knew.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Honeysett, “you mean because of me opening that there door. Well, there is two surprises. One’s roast chicken. For supper,” she added impressively.