"Stolen!" Priscilla gasped. "Well, anybody who's mean enough to steal from empty-stocking children!"
"That'll cut down our profits dreadfully," groaned Amy.
Peggy roused herself. "Maybe there's some mistake," she cried. "It almost seems as if there must be some mistake. Let's look outside."
There was a rush for the back door, despite Graham Wylie's philosophical suggestion that a ten-quart ice cream freezer was a difficult thing to mislay. The November night was starless and chilly, and most of the girls, after taking a disconsolate view of the landscape, withdrew shivering to the warmth within, to bemoan their misfortune. Perhaps Peggy found it harder to give up than most people do. She went down the walk to the alley, Graham following.
"It's such a big thing," observed Peggy over her shoulder, "that you wouldn't think it could get very far without attracting attention. You don't suppose--"
"Sh!" warned Graham suddenly, and both went forward on tiptoe. Further up the alley sounded a curious bumping noise. A murmur of voices broke the hush of the night.
Graham felt for the bolt of the back gate, found it already drawn, and smiled, well pleased. The voices outside were audible by now.
"Say, that's far enough."
"'Tain't far enough till it's inside, kid. You don't s'pose they's goin' to look fer ice cream in no alley, do you?"
Something bumped against the gate. Slowly it opened, and a capped head appeared. Then Graham pounced; there was a thud and a wild scampering, and Peggy flew to the rescue of the overturned freezer.