The Milk in the Cocoa-Nut.
“Yes, all right, Mrs Champernowne; get up directly. I say, what’s o’clock?”
“Oh, I don’t know, my dear,” came in agitated tones, “but would you come to the door and speak to me a minute?”
There was a bump on the floor as Rodd sprang out of bed, and then—
“What is it?” whispered the boy, who was moved by his caller’s evident distress. “Don’t say uncle’s ill!”
“No, no, my dear, but I am in great trouble. You—you didn’t shut the front door.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Rodd.
“And—and, my dear, there have been thieves and robbers in the night. They have stripped my little larder, and I don’t know what they haven’t taken besides. Do, pray, make haste and dress, and come down and help me! I am in such trouble, I don’t know what I shall do.”
“All right; I’ll make haste and come down,” cried Rodd, feeling guilty all over, and then trying to excuse himself by shuffling the blame on to the right shoulders. “It was uncle she asked,” he muttered, as he ran round to the other side of the bed for the chair upon which he had hang his clothes when he undressed. “Why, hallo!”
He stood staring at the chair for a moment or two, and then ran round the foot of the bed, opened the door two or three inches, and called in a subdued tone so as not to awaken his uncle, though if he had been asked why, he could not have told, beyond saying that he felt then that it was the right thing to do—