Davey fitted himself in by Foster. It was rich with dust in there, but by now they were very much at home with dust, so who cared. They had to sit cross-legged and pull in their elbows, and if they had been a few years older, they would have had to bend their heads down, too, but as it was they fitted very well.
Foster grasped the prickly hemp rope that hung at one side, gave it a tug, and with a croak and a wobble, their elevator rose up in the shaft.
"Man!" cried Davey in delight. "Give her another yank, Foss, and see if she goes up to the roof!"
It was dark as they went up the shaft, but not badly dark, not pitch dark, because the door below stood open, letting in the light.
Foster maneuvered the dumb-waiter up as far as it would go: to another door on the next story, but there was no latch on the inside, so of course they couldn't open it. Then they went down to the first floor and then up again. The ascending box lurched pleasantly on its rope, knocking against the walls of the shaft now and then and creaking and croaking as it went.
"Up to Pluto, up to the moon!" cried Foster.
"Up to the moon in an old soup spoon!" sang Davey, in a burst of inspiration.
This seemed so terribly funny to them both that they began to giggle.
They reached the top of the shaft again with a bump, and paused there in the exciting darkness that was not dark enough to be scary.