CHAPTER VII
A RAID
Dorothy found a match on the shelf and lit the gas. It had grown pitch dark outside, and she drew the curtain, too.
“Just as snug as a bug in a rug,” quoted Tavia, chuckling. “Only we can’t eat the rug, as the bug might, and so reduce our awful appetites. Couldn’t you eat a whole ox, Doro?”
“And a minute ago you wanted to eat a house,” said Dorothy. “Think of something more appropriate.”
“I will. Nice, thin slices of boiled ham between soft white bread—plenty of butter and some mustard—not too much. Pickles—just the very sourest kind. Some chicken salad with fresh lettuce leaves—home-made dressing, no bottled stuff. Stuffed olives. Peanut butter between graham crackers—m-m-m! lovely! celery. And a big piece of frosted cake——”
“Stop!” commanded Dorothy. “Do you want to drive me quite into insurrection?”
“I am already an insurrecto,” declared Tavia. “And I believe I can get just the sort of banquet I have outlined.”
“At some nice hotel—in New York?”
“I know what they were going to have for supper to-night,” declared Tavia, and walked over to examine the locked door.
“Do you mean to say we are going to have that kind of a supper?” demanded Dorothy, tragically. “And we under arrest?”