Peg wanted to know where we were going.
“Over to the mill,” Scoop informed, “to settle [[85]]up with mister spy. You better stay here with Tom. We’ll be right back.”
Getting Romeo’s oats from the back porch, we cut around the barn, Mr. Ricks’ workshop, and crawled under a rusty wire fence. We could see the horse in the mill yard. It made a queer gurgling throat sound when we gave it the oats. Poor old nag!
The soap man was nowhere in sight in the lower part of the mill.
“S-h-h-h!” motioned Scoop, tiptoeing across the big empty room. He paused at the foot of the stairs and cupped his hand to his ear.
“Hear anything?” I breathed, at his elbow.
“No. But I bet he’s up there.”
“Let’s call,” I suggested, uneasy under the mill’s crowding shadows, “and bring him down.”
“Why not go up? We may find out something.”
“Risky,” I said. I looked up the stairs. “See how dark it is.”