. . . . . . . . . .
“Well, if he said I called him up, he’s probably a gang of thieves. I’ll get the police. What did he look like?”
. . . . . . . . . .
“With a small boy, eh? I knew I smelled small boy. I’ll bet he’s one of these Giant-killer smarties. I’ll soon fix him.” He rose, shaking the house with his heavy tread.
Wendell was a brave boy, but who wouldn’t quail before an angry giant? Wendell quailed. He looked around for a place to hide.
The bathroom occupied a little ell with eaves, and under the eaves ran a wainscoting, broken by a little door that was evidently the entrance to a low closet. Wendell opened it and crawled in, not quite closing the door, as it had no handle on the inside. He crouched behind a trunk, pulled down some old clothes from a nail to cover him, and kept very still, all but his heart, which thumped loudly.
“They’re not here,” he heard the Stepmother say. “It looks as if they were coming back, though.”
“They are here,” roared the Giant. “The small boy’s here. I can smell him. He’s in that closet.”
He flung open the door.