Blue laughed. “You sent me out there with Caruso—that’s what!”
“You carried him and wrote the letter anyhow!” declared Doodles. “But, say, when is he coming home? I do want to see him! Was he real sick, the reason you took him over to Mr. Gillespie’s?”
“No, only mopish. When I telephoned to him, he said he guessed he missed you, and I’d better bring him there where he’d have all his birds for company till you got back. He said to wrap him up and fetch him right along. I put some newspapers round the cage, and made some little holes for breathing places, as he told me, and he’s been there ever since. He’s comin’ in Monday anyway, and he’s goin’ to bring him then.”
“Supper’s ready!” called Mrs. Stickney.
“This doesn’t look much like the old Flatiron kitchen, does it?” exulted Blue.
Doodles shook his head smilingly, his mouth full of egg salad.
“Bet this came from the Flemings’, didn’t it?” queried Blue.
“I knew it,” he went on, after his mother’s assent. “They’re always sending down something or other. You ought to have seen the basket that came the day we moved! About everything in it! I tell you, they’re the folks for me!”
“Me too!” chimed in Doodles. “But I think there couldn’t have been anything in that basket better than these muffins,” he added, with a loving glance across to his mother.
“Nobody can rout her on cooking,” declared Blue.