“Your pocketbook?” asked Sam, who had come around to the kitchen to wash his hands. “Where did you leave it?”
“I had it on that side table. It was wrapped in an old newspaper. I was going to take it up to my room last night and hide it, but I forgot.”
“That newspaper!” ejaculated Sam, and turned slightly pale. “If you had it in that newspaper it was your pocketbook that shot the top off that bee hive!”
CHAPTER XI
A DAY TO REMEMBER
“Great Cicero, is it possible we have shot the cook’s pocketbook to pieces!” murmured Dick, who had come up in time to hear the conversation.
“Shoot it! Did you shoot at my pocketbook?” demanded Sarah.
“We didn’t shoot at it, Sarah,” answered Sam. “I stuffed that paper in the cannon for wadding.”
“What, with my pocketbook in it!” screamed the cook. “Oh, dear! Was ever there such boys!”
“I didn’t know there was anything in the paper. It looked all crumpled up.”
“It was the best paper I could find and I thought it would do,” groaned Sarah. “Oh, dear, what am I to do? Where is the pocketbook now?”