“There are no flies in the house,” Mrs. Dore protested, “and we can’t catch all the flies in the outside world.”
The boys cleaned the barn, the little cellar to the house, its tiny garret. They rolled and re-rolled the tennis court. They begged for other work and Mrs. Dore gave them all the table silver to polish and some pots, obstinately black, to scrape.
When Mr. Westabrook came, the place looked, as he said, as though they had cleaned the outside with manicure tools and the inside with the aid of a microscope. The supper which, in deference to Mr. Westabrook, included a single hot dish, consisted of one of Rosie’s delicious chowders; one of Maida’s delicious blueberry cakes; one of Laura’s delicious salads; and a freezer full of the boys’ delicious ice-cream.
Mr. Westabrook said that he had eaten meals all over the United States and in nearly every country in Europe and he could not recall any one that he had enjoyed more than this.
That night the Big Six went to bed with clear consciences.
CHAPTER XIX MAIDA’S MOOD
“What are you so quiet about, Maida?” Dicky asked at breakfast a few mornings later. “I don’t think you’ve said a word since you’ve got up.”