Sandy, Dutch, Hoop and Claire were watching the tennis when the two conspirators returned to the front of the cottage and The Fungus at once announced the gleeful news of a raid on the orchard “at half-past ten by the old town clock.” Sandy, as became his years of discretion—he was sixteen—looked doubtful, but the rest were so heartily in favor of the adventure that he was forced to give his sanction in order to save his dignity and authority.
“It’s risky, though,” he declared with a frown. “We’ll have to be mighty quiet. If the Old Maids hear us they’ll tell Horace, as sure as shooting.”
“What of it?” Hoop ridiculed. “They can’t prove it was us if they don’t see us.”
“The trouble is that we’re under suspicion,” said Sandy.—“Good stuff, Spud! That was a dandy!—They’ll say it was us and Horace will ask us. Then what?”
There was an uncomfortable silence and everyone seemed to prefer to watch the tennis rather than face the question. At last Hoop said:
“Well, preservation is the first law of Nature, or something like that. If he asks me I’ll tell him I don’t know anything about it.”
“You can’t do that,” said The Fungus, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You can’t lie about it, you know. Especially to Horace. He—he expects you to tell the truth and you just have to do it. The only way is to keep so quiet that they won’t hear us. And the place I’ve found where we can get through the fence is so far from the house that they’re not likely to know anything about it. And it will be plumb dark, too. Hard luck, Ned!”
“Game and set,” panted Ned. “I guess there isn’t time for any more, Spud. I’ll try you again tomorrow, though, you Mr. Good-player.”
“What was it?” asked Dutch.
“Seven—five,” said Spud. “Gee, I’m warm! What time is it?”