“I don’t believe we would,” said Sandy. “But Horace would make us promise not to do it again. So I guess we’d better not get caught at it. Wonder what time it is. I guess we’d better be getting back.”
[“Please don’t throw me in,” begged Claire]
“Let’s have a race to the bridge,” Dutch proposed. “We’ll all line up here even and Clara can give the word.”
So it was done and there was a wild scamper over the grass, a plunge into the pond and a frenzied race back across the moonlit surface, John and Dutch and Sandy swimming a dead-heat. Then they found their night clothes and, holding them away from their dripping bodies, took the path back to the cottage. By the time West House was in sight they were dry and they stopped at the edge of the park and donned pajamas and night-gowns. Then they stole towards the back of the house, across the moonlit grass, and Dutch tried the kitchen door.
“Locked!” he whispered disgustedly, turning to Ned.
“Gee, I forgot to go down!” muttered Ned sheepishly. “I had so much trouble waking Cal that—”
“You’re a wonder!” growled Sandy. “This is a fine note. How do we get in?”