“Sounded like a cat.”
“Didn’t to me. Cats are squealier’n that was. I wonder if anybody or thing is in there now. If I had time I’d go and see.”
“Robin, wouldn’t you be afraid?”
“Afraid? Afraid to go into my own house, that was, that my father built with his own hands? Huh! What do you take me for? I’d as soon go in there as eat my din—Hello! There certainly—”
They put their heads close to the paneless window and listened intently. That was a human groan. That was a curious patter of small hoofs—Dorothy had heard just such a sound before. That surely was a most familiar wail:
“Oh, Baal! My jiminy cricket!”
“Jiminy cricket yourself, Jack-boot-boy! What you doing in my house? I’m living in yours—I mean I’m boot-boy now. How are you?” cried Robin, through the window.
“Who’m you? Have you got anything to eat? Quick! Have you?”
The voice which put the question was surely Jack’s but oddly weak and tremulous. Dorothy answered:
“Not here, Jack, course. Are you hungry?”