I told her about the old soap man. He was trying to steal some money, I said, that belonged to some one else, and we were trying to save the money for its rightful owner.
“Gracious me!” she cried, in sudden alarm.
“Tom and I are going back to town on my bike,” I explained, “and we want you to keep the [[187]]old soap man out in front as long as you can. When he tumbles to the fact that we have disappeared, you mustn’t tell him where we have gone to.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Here’s some soap,” I grinned, giving her my six cakes. “In a few minutes go out to the buggy and say: ‘I believe I’ll take another six cakes.’ The old man will think that we’re in here. And he’ll be tickled pink to let you have all of the soap that you want. Then you can wait another two or three minutes and go out and get some more soap. See?”
Mrs. Crandon gave a hearty laugh.
“What if he tries to make me pay for the soap?”
“Tell him that you’ve changed your mind about buying it, and hand it back to him.”
My bicycle, she told us, was in the carriage shed. Getting the wheel, we cut through an orchard to the country road. With Tom on the cross-bar, I pedaled for dear life.
We got to town before five o’clock. The brick house was closed. So we knew that our chums were still in the mill.