He was opening the box, using the blade of a stout pocket-knife as a screwdriver.
“A return ticket to Chicago costs fourteen dollars,” he said. “I asked at the dépôt. That would be twenty-eight dollars for two people. Any one who is careful can live on a very little for a while. I want to see if we shall have money enough to go.”
“To go!” Meg cried out. “To the Fair, Robin?”
She could not believe the evidence of her ears—it sounded so daring.
“Nobody would take us!” she said. “Even if we had money enough to pay for ourselves, nobody would take us.”
“Take!” answered Robin, working at his screws. “No, nobody would. What’s the matter with taking ourselves?”
Meg sat up in the straw, conscious of a sort of shock.
“To go by ourselves, like grown-up people! To buy our tickets ourselves, and get on the train, and go all the way—alone! And walk about the Fair alone, Robin?”
“Who takes care of us here?” answered Robin. “Who has looked after us ever since father and mother died? Ourselves! Just ourselves! Whose business are we but our own? Who thinks of us, or asks if we are happy or unhappy?”
“Nobody,” said Meg. And she hid her face in her arms on her knees.