"We'll be there in a minute," called Launcelot impatiently. "Now hurry up, kids. Take a-hold, here. No, not so near together. Now, I'm going to count. When I say three, you all pull like the dickens, and then run, lickety split. Get out of the way there, Mike."
The children grasped the rotten palings.
"One—two—three," counted Launcelot.
The little army gave a mighty tug. The rotten wood splintered, split, yielded; the fence fell with a crash, and a sorry mass of decayed boards covered the yard.
The children waited to see no more, but rushed about the house as though old Mr. Schultzsky himself was in their wake.
Launcelot and Ginevra turned at the basement steps to help little Mike, who had fallen upon his face in the stampede. From his place of vantage Launcelot glanced around to see if they were being pursued. There was no one in sight, and all was still.
"Now," said Launcelot boldly, "Miss Billy can have her berbarry haige."