"The key of the tool-house!" exclaimed Tib. "How do you know it is it? Where did you find it?"
"I found it among the prickly things on the floor of the summer-house," he replied. "It's quite dry and clean, see!" and so it was, as if it had been packed in sawdust.
"But how do you know what key it is?" we asked.
"I tried it—I stayed behind a minute that day; you didn't notice. It is the key. It fits pairfittly," said Gerald. "Only it's very stiff, and my hands wasn't quite strong enough. If we all try, perhaps."
He put the key into the lock. Yes, it was evident it was the key, lost for who knows how many years. How queer that no one had ever had another made; there was another tool-house, and one was enough, perhaps. But still, it did seem queer. First Tib, then I, tried to turn it, but it was no use.
"If we put a stick through the end of the key, we might turn it that way."
"But it might break it; don't you remember we broke the nursery door key in London by trying to turn it with a tooth-brush handle?" I said. "It wants oiling, Tib—that's it; not the key, perhaps, but the lock. We must wait till to-morrow, and get some oil in one of the doll's cups, and a feather, and then I'm sure it'll do. But what a bother to have to wait till to-morrow!"
There was no help for it, however. Wait till to-morrow we must.