“Don’t forget you’re going to be quite a way up in the air,” Nancy cautioned.
“Oh, I’ve always been a tomboy.” Sally did a cartwheel. “I’ll put on gray slacks and a gray sweater, just in case the moon comes out. The roof is gray, you know.”
“You’d better wear sneakers.”
“Oh, sure!”
And so everything was set for the hour of ten.
“All clear!” Nancy whispered, tiptoeing down the hall. “Deck Three is deserted. Come on up.”
Armed with two pairs of small pliers, a coil of wire, a flashlight and the key to the attic, Sally followed in silence to the floor above. A swift glide, the rattle of a key, the silent opening and shutting of a door and Sally found herself tiptoeing up the attic stairs.
It was a dark and gloomy spot, that attic. As Nancy had put it: “A hundred years look at you up there.”
This was true, for an accumulation of furniture, long outmoded, was stored there. There, too, were all manner of stage drops and settings left over from amateur plays. With her flashlight aimed low, Sally picked her way with care to the nearest gable window.
The window was nailed down but her pliers soon took care of that.