They found very few eatables—candy, fruit, or the like. Mrs. Murdock had wisely sold out this perishable stock. One glass jar, however, was crammed full of what Billy recognized to be “bulls-eyes”—round lumps of candy as big as plums and as hard as stones. Billy said that he loved bulls-eyes better than terrapin or broiled live lobster, that he had not tasted one since he was “half-past ten.” For the rest of the day, one of his cheeks stuck out as if he had the toothache.
They came across all kinds of odds and ends—lead pencils, blank-books, an old slate pencil wrapped in gold paper which Billy insisted on using to draw pictures on a slate—he made this squeak so that Maida clapped her hands over her ears. They found single pieces from sets of miniature furniture, a great many dolls, rag-dolls, china dolls, celluloid dolls, the latest bisque beauties, and two old-fashioned waxen darlings whose features had all run together from being left in too great a heat.
They went through all these things, sorting them into heaps which they afterwards placed in boxes. At noon, Billy went out and bought lunch. Still squatting on the floor, the three of them ate sandwiches and drank milk. Granny said that Maida had never eaten so much at one meal.
All this happened on Saturday. Maida did not see the little shop again until it was finished.
By Monday the place was as busy as a beehive. Men were putting in a furnace, putting in a telephone, putting in a bathroom, whitening the plaster, painting the woodwork.
Finally came two days of waiting for the paint to dry. “Will it ever, ever, EVER dry?” Maida used to ask Billy in the most despairing of voices.
By Thursday, the rooms were ready for their second coat of paint.
“Oh, Billy, do tell me what color it is—I can’t wait to see it,” Maida begged.
But, “Sky-blue-pink” was all she got from Billy.
Saturday the furniture came.