"It's stopped!" she announced. "It's wearing out. The only way it will go now is to lay it over on its face or tip it up on one side, somewhat upsidedownish. I set it up straight last night, and it has stopped. There's hardly any light in the airshaft here, but I think we've slept until near the day after to-morrow."
"But it still feels just like to-day," protested Margery. "I can't wake up, Hapsie, and we're not the only ones—the whole flat is still."
"I'm going to get dressed and find out what day it is. Oh, Margery! There's the whistle! The janitor has come for the ashes. It must be nine o'clock, at least. I'll pop on slippers and something above them, and go attend to him. I think it is storming," said Happie, ready to leave the room almost as soon as she had spoken.
It was not storming in the sense most people use the word, that is, neither snow nor rain was falling, but the wind was blowing a gale, as Happie discovered when she got out into the kitchen where she could see the leaden sky which looked as though the whole world were under a great tank.
The rattling of the dumb waiter, Happie calling to Gretta in her tiny rear room and Margery conscientiously bestirring herself after her sister had arisen, woke the rest of the family and it was not long before the entire eight Scollards—counting Gretta a Scollard for the convenience of the census—were up and out of the various little Patty-Pan chambers tardily to begin the dark day.
It was a formidable day to begin. Blinding dust clouds gathered and eddied down the wide avenue of this newer part of New York. People fought for foothold around corners, shrinking from the penetrating cold of a wind sharper in its chilling powers than any recording instrument could register.
"I'm glad that we are on the fourth floor to-day," remarked Margery after breakfast, as she alternated face and back to the steam radiator. "Heat ascends, and this is the sort of day when one wants all the heat there is."
"Unless it comes in the shape of a conflagration," suggested Bob, smoothing the ear and the ruffled feelings of Jeunesse Dorée tickled by the morning paper as he sat on the boy's lap. "Wouldn't this be a great old day for a fire, though?"
"Oh, Bob, don't suggest it!" begged his mother. "It's my abiding horror. I think the new janitor is careful."