"You can be let out any time that Miss Van Deusen will send down her signed and witnessed resignation from the office of mayor. Push it through the crack and the door will be opened for you."
When they read it, Gertrude's face flushed hotly. "So they think to force me out, do they?"
"Don't you resign, Miss Van Deusen," said Mary. "We'll stay here and starve, first. Somebody will find us—some time."
"I've not the slightest intention of resigning," replied the other. "And how often have I asked you to call me Gertrude? We aren't mayor and secretary now—or I'd command you to call me by my given name. We are just two prisoners."
"Then I'll do as you say—if I don't forget—Gertrude," answered Mary.
"I wonder what they are doing down below," said Mary later in the day.
"How many times do you think we've said that this week?" laughed Gertrude. "We've heard the usual street sounds, and an unusual amount of bell-ringing—which may or may not have been on our account."
"At least, we haven't heard them toll the bells for us!" interrupted Mary. "That's something."
"But not a paper, not a line, not a breath from the outside world has reached up—except the basket of provisions," exclaimed Gertrude, ruefully.
"And the demand for your resignation," interrupted Mary again. "Honestly, now, Gertrude, don't you wish at the bottom of your heart, that you had never gone into politics? That you'd let the office of mayor go begging last fall?"