There was a silence. At last:
“I don’t suppose J. G. would let us give up our room now,” observed Gil thoughtfully.
“We might find out,” answered Poke. They turned by common impulse and stared at each other. Then Poke broke into a laugh.
“Let’s do it!” he shouted.
Gil grinned. “All right,” he answered.
They shook hands on it.
[CHAPTER IV]
MR. GORDON RECEIVES
At a quarter before five that afternoon the expressman landed the last of Gil’s and Poke’s belongings in the corner room at Sunnywood Cottage. On his final trip upstairs the expressman carried a waste-basket filled with books and a crimson sofa pillow embroidered with a gray C. Gil paid him, closed the door behind him and then with a shout of triumph seized the cushion and hurled it across the room at Poke. As Poke was at that instant bent over a suit case, extracting a miscellaneous assortment of books, balls, pens, shoes and so forth from it, and as the cushion struck him square between his shoulders, the result was interesting and spectacular. Poke’s head went into the suit case and his feet flew out behind him. Gil, chortling gleefully, watched Poke recover his equilibrium. Then, by deftly dropping to the floor at the psychological moment, he escaped the rubber-soled shoe that sang across the room and banged against the door. He picked up the missile and tossed it back. Poke caught with one hand, swooped down and tagged the suit case. Gil waved his hand.