With the horse and buggy out of sight, we ran back to the kitchen, where we found young fatty helping himself to one of Ma Doane’s choice apple pies. The big pig! Poppy and I had spotted that particular pie for ourselves.
The door-bell ringing at eleven-thirty, the fat kid beat it into the hall, sure now, after an uneasy hour, that his father had finally arrived to do the will reading.
“Why,” came a familiar squeaky voice from the open door, “if it isn’t little Eggbert!”
Now, I’ll admit right off the bat that this “girl” stuff of ours was a crazy mess. We probably shouldn’t have done it. Certainly, it didn’t get us anything in the end. But, even so, before I go any farther, I think I ought to hand old Poppy a hunk of praise. For he sure was carrying out his part to perfection. Not only did he look like a girl, but he acted like one. His voice was a bit off-key, of course. But that was nothing.
“Miss Ruth!” cried the housekeeper, playing her part. “Miss Ruth has come at last!”
CHAPTER XXI
BEHIND THE MOON
Well, with all of Poppy’s cleverness, the wonder to me is, as I look back, that fatty was fooled. For he wasn’t a dumb-bell. Yet, to our good luck, he never caught on. And if ever you saw a disappointed face it was his, which showed plainly enough that he knew how the will read.
Mrs. Doane was buzzing around like a bumblebee. It was “dearie this” and “dearie that.” And when “dearie,” in walking up and down the room, got out a compact and powdered “her” nose, I thought I’d die. Everything looked so natural, “she” purred—only it was more of a squeak than a purr.
Having tried without success to get his mother on the telephone, young fatty primped in front of the hall mirror, to make himself pretty, and then sidled up to the “heiress” on the sofa.
“How did you know it was me?” he blushed.