“I could eat standing on my head,” said Townsend.
“Not soup,” said Pee-wee.
“Well, rice cakes and bacon,” said Townsend.
“Yum, yum, m, m, m, m, m!” said Pee-wee.
As they approached the little garage it had a strange, uninviting look; it looked different. There was not that suggestion of open hospitality which it had shown when Lizzie rolled majestically in and awoke the dim echoes of the interior with her rich, modulated voice. In plain fact the garage was closed, its two big doors linked together by a huge, cold-hearted padlock. And no sign of human life was there anywhere about the place.
CHAPTER XXXI
TOWNSEND’S MIDDLE NAME
For a full half minute neither spoke and there was no sound but the heartless clanking of the padlock as Townsend shook it. There was no deception there—it was locked tight.
“Let’s walk around it,” said Townsend.
They reconnoitered about the little wooden building almost too dumbfounded to speak. Townsend glanced in through a side window.