"He's eating the whole of it!" she exclaimed.
"What, a whole gingerbread?" my mother repeated, evidently startled.
"Yes, ma'am. I've been poking at him with a broom; but it's no use."
There was a quick procession up to my mother's room, my mother leading it, with her head thrown up in wrath, then little Trixie and I hand-in-hand, and Norah following behind us to see justice done. The room was dark and orderly; but there was a curious shuffling sound under the bed.
"Dick!" my mother cried. "Come out of there! Dick! Do you hear what I say? Richard!"
When my mother said "Richard" things were apt to be pretty serious.
Little Dick crawled out from under the bed very reluctantly. He was red and sticky; but he had a happy expression as if he had been having rather a good time. He brought a tin plate with him, and it was quite empty. There was not even so much as a crumb in it. My mother looked at him in horror, and grandmother, who had been attracted by the noise, looked at him, too, over my mother's shoulder, with strong disapprobation.
"If he were my son," she said, distinctly, "I'd give him a good thrashing. He richly deserves it."
It was a dreadful moment. Little Trixie and I stared at the scene fascinated, while my mother wavered between justice and mercy. When she finally spoke her voice was very cold and severe.