"They ought to blow softly to announce that they are going to blow hard," suggested Bob, as he opened the door to answer the summons. But he had jumped himself.
"It may be a waiter, but it's certainly not a dumb waiter," observed Happie, pursuing a truant potato to the corner by the ice box.
"It makes me perfectly blasé," sighed Laura, holding her side as she took the napkins from their drawer.
"Blasé! Oh, Laura, when will you learn to use words right, or to use only those you understand?" laughed Margery pulling herself up by the back of the chair.
Bob was leaning down the dumb waiter shaft, and a voice arose from its depths.
"Groc'ries fer you!" it called in the unspellable accent of New York's east side.
"I guess not," Bob called back. "Wrong whistle."
"From Lichtenzeit's," insisted the voice.
"No," called Bob.
"Top floor. Gordon," the voice shouted angrily. And as Bob leaned down further to explain that he was a Scollard, the dumb waiter began to ascend with rapid clatter, and further parley was impossible.