CHAPTER XVIII
POPPY’S PEDIGREED PICKLES
Landing on the north shore of the river, the boats were dragged out of the water, to keep them from wandering off into the current, after which we jiggled the cave truck into four equal loads and started single file for the darkened stone house, where we did a snappy little rat-a-tat-tat on the closed front door.
“Who is it?” Mrs. O’Mally’s quavering voice percolated through the keyhole.
Getting our answer, the door was quickly thrown open.
“We’ve brought you company,” laughed Poppy, as the whole gang traipsed in.
The woman stared at the visitors, more particularly at the stooped old man.
“Howdy, ma’am,” says he, taking off his hat and bowing like a hand-organ monkey. Then his bundle got away from him and tin pans galloped all over the room.
“Mither of Moses!” hurdled Mrs. O’Mally. “’Tis a wonder ye wouldn’t scare the wits out of a body.”
We told her then who the old man was, and why the kid was no longer a prisoner.
“As we’re all working together,” Poppy wound up, “we figured that the safest and best plan, with the cat killer in mind, was to live together, too.”