“Why, of course I will, my dears.”
“And, Cookie, we haven’t had any dinner, and it’s only bread and butter and milk and water.”
“Yes; coming,” cried the woman, as a door was heard to open, and a voice to call.
“Go along,” she said. “They’re calling for the bread and butter. You look under your pillows when you go to bed.”
“It’s all right,” said Mercer. “Come along. She came from our town, and knows our people. My father set her brother-in-law’s leg once, after he’d tumbled off a hay stack. Isn’t she a gruff one when she likes! This way. Let’s get in our places now.”
We went in to tea, which was only tea for Mr Rebble, who had a small black pot to himself, and a tiny jug of cream; but the bread and butter and milk and water were delicious, and I had made so good a meal that I had forgotten all about our visit to the cook till we had been in bed some time. I was just dozing off to sleep, when I was roused up by Mercer’s hand laid across my mouth.
“Don’t speak,” he whispered; “the others are asleep. Boiled beef sandwiches in a paper bag, and two jam puffs.”
“What?” I whispered. “Where?”
“Here—in my fist. They were tucked under my pillow. Now, then, pitch in.”
I sat up in bed, and Mercer sat up in his. It was so dark that we could hardly see each other, but the darkness was no hindrance to our eating, and the next minute there was a sound which may be best expressed as ruminating, varied by the faint rustle made by a hand gliding into a paper bag, followed after a long interval by a faint sigh, and—