Skippy had found in the rubbish a coil of rope that was in excellent condition. Nickie had come upon what apparently had been the handle of an antique iron pot, and the two discoveries had formed the nucleus of their present discussion.
The giant evergreen of poor Timmy’s dream spread its lofty boughs within a few yards of the small window. “That pot handle’s strong enough to wedge out those bars, Nickie,” Skippy was saying thoughtfully. “It’ll take maybe a coupla hours, ’cause I guess they’re in there pretty tight. When we get that done, I’ll lasso that tree an’ tie it pretty tight somewheres in here.”
“I getcha, kid!” Nickie said enthusiastically. “We swing out along it hand over hand, hah? Then, when we hit a strong-lookin’ branch we drop an’ zip, we’re on the ground fore we know it!”
“Yeah, that’s it. It’s the only way. We been all over this house an’ this is the best we can do.”
“Sure. It’s work but ain’t it worth it? Anyways, kid, let’s put the bag on. We ain’t had no chow all day, we been so busy turnin’ this place upside down. How about it?”
“Gee whiz, I most forgot I had a stomach—honest! I can’t thinka nothin’ but gettin’ away. But I’m hungry, that’s a fact.”
“Yeah, me too. Even them canned beans’ll taste like turkey tonight.”
“Beans!” Skippy said disgustedly. “It’ll be nice to eat sump’n besides canned beans n’ stale crackers n’ coffee. Gee whiz, I like milk, I do—cold, creamy milk!”
“Yeah, an’ I like soup, kid. Nice, hot, creamy soup like my aunt makes.”
“C’mon, Nickie, let’s get eatin’ an’ get it over with!”