“P’raps they will, anyway.”
“Well, we haven’t taken off yet—much less arrived. Come on, eat. You get no more food until we reach Clayton, you know.”
Bill faded away toward the front of the house and Charlie started on the cookies.
Ten minutes later, Bill was back again. On his head was a soft leather helmet, while strapped to his waist, the butt of an automatic protruded from its leather holster. He laid another flying helmet, goggles and a small Winchester repeating rifle on the kitchen table.
“For you! How’s the tummy, full enough?”
“Just about,” grunted Charlie, stuffing the remainder of the cookies into his trousers pockets. “Lead on, MacDuffer!”
He slapped the helmet and goggles onto his thatch of red hair and picked up the gun.
“I left lights burning upstairs and in the study,” said Bill. “We’ll fool those guys yet. It’s the cellar for ours, come along.”
He waited at the foot of the stairs and beckoned to Charlie. “Give me your paw. We daren’t show a glim down here.”
Young Evans caught his hand in the inky darkness, and presently Bill stopped again, released his hand and could be heard fumbling with something above their heads.