"Come on, Shirley," cried the naughty Sarah. "We'll look at the old tools—we won't hurt 'em."
She found she had reckoned without the canny Mr. Hildreth, when she reached the tool house. It was securely locked and no amount of tampering could make any impression on the stout padlock.
"Come on, we'll go up in the windmill," said Sarah, not to be balked.
She would have found it hard to explain what satisfaction disobeying Mr. Hildreth and Warren gave her, when her anger was really directed toward her brother. However, she may have reasoned that doing something she knew was wrong was one sure way to plague Doctor Hugh.
Shirley obediently trotted after her sister to the graceful red shingled tower that enclosed the iron framework of the windmill. Alas, for once in his busy life, Mr. Hildreth had inspected the pump and left the door unlocked. Sarah had merely to open it and fold it back and the interior of the mill was revealed to her.
"We'll play it's a robbers' cave, Shirley," suggested Sarah. "It's nice and dark."
She was minded to climb the enticing iron ladder, but fearful lest Shirley develop an obstinate streak and refuse, she had decided to begin with a milder amusement.
"I'll be the robber chief, Shirley," she went on—Sarah had a fondness for such plays and her brother often said that she would have had a wonderful time as a boy. "I'll be the robber chief," she repeated, "and you drag in the loot."
"What's loot?" asked Shirley hopefully, having a vague idea that it was something one ate.
"Loot is what we steal from the noble lords and ladies," Sarah asserted with a faint memory of old firelight stories.