“No, I haven’t, Molly; and I haven’t looked in the salt-cellars.”
“Oh, you funny boy!” tittered Weezy, who regarded the search as a protracted and rather diverting game of hide-and-go-seek.
Mrs. Rowe, on the contrary, was becoming seriously troubled.
“Where can the darling be, Molly?” she cried, rushing back into the house, and hurrying from room to room. “I can hardly hear his voice now. How faint it has grown!”
“It is loudest here in the hall, mamma,” said Molly, who had run ahead, and halted abruptly at the foot of the front stairway.
“Donny is up chimney, I guess,” cried little Louise, dancing to the fireplace.
“Nonsense, Weezy; do you think he is a bat?” retorted Molly.
Kirke dropped on his knees before the hearth. He had been stuck in a chimney once himself, and the recollection always made his flesh creep.
“If Donald has crawled up this flue, Molly, it’s no laughing matter, let me tell you.”
“What are you talking about, Kirke? Donald couldn’t crawl up that flue; it is altogether too small.”