“Oh, you couldn’t—you’re just a girl, but I’ll show you where I got up,” said Ernest condescendingly. “Say, where’s all the apples and cookies?”
The hint was sufficient and both besieged and besiegers, perched in various attitudes along the low roof like a flock of variegated chickens, were soon merrily celebrating the downfall of Acre.
It was thus that Mrs. Morton found them, coming around the house a few moments later in search of her offspring.
“Children! What are you doing?” she gasped in horrified tones. “Jane Morton, I thought I told you to play quietly. The idea of little girls climbing up on a roof. Put on your shoes this instant—all of you—and come down! Ernest, didn’t you know better than to let your little sister go into such a dangerous place?”
Neither the valorous sultan, nor the doughty Crusaders were proof against this onslaught, and the visitors speedily retreated homewards while their crestfallen host and hostess went to bed to think over their sins. Chicken Little indeed started to say something about Alice having let them, but stopped suddenly, warned by a dig in the ribs from Ernest’s elbow.
While the more favored members of the family were at supper that night, and Ernest was tossing restlessly and wondering if they were having apple dumplings, a small, warm hand reached up beside the bed and touched him.
“Hush, here’s your book, Ern, and here’s two slices of bread and jam, and some cheese and apple pie.”
“Where in the Dickens did you——”
“Somebody poked a plate with it on inside my door a minute ago. We’d better eat it quick.”
Ernest needed no urging.