Ruth and Agnes were dusting and making the beds on this Monday morning, while Tess and Dot were setting their playhouse to rights.
“I just heard her say so, so now, Tessie Kenway,” Dot was saying. “And I know if it’s up there, it’s never had a thing to eat since we came here to live.”
“I don’t see how that could be,” said Tess, wonderingly.
“It’s just so,” repeated the positive Dot.
“But why doesn’t it make a noise?”
“We-ell,” said the smaller girl, puzzled, too, “maybe we don’t hear it ’cause it’s too far up—there at the top of the house.”
“I know,” said Tess, thoughtfully. “They eat tin cans, and rubber boots, and any old thing. But I always thought that was because they couldn’t find any other food. Like those castaway sailors Ruth read to us about, who chewed their sealskin boots. Maybe such things stop the gnawing feeling you have in your stomach when you’re hungry.”
“I am going to pull some grass and take it up there,” announced the stubborn Dot. “I am sure it would be glad of some grass.”
“Maybe Ruth wouldn’t like us to,” objected Tess.
“But it isn’t Ruthie’s!” cried Dot. “It must have belonged to Uncle Peter.”