“It’s not just according to the rules of etiquette,” he said, producing a package from the basket, “but we’ll have to start on the ice-cream first before it melts. Then we’ll work back along the line, to salad and ginger ale.”
He drew forth from the package, which proved to be a box filled with chopped ice, a small brick of ice-cream. It was beginning to melt about the edges, but they made short work of it.
“Now,” said Henry Burns, “if you please, we’ll start all over again. Here are the sandwiches.”
“It’s the finest spread I ever had,” said young Joe, appreciatively, as he stowed away his fourth sandwich and helped himself to an orange.
“Joe always goes on the principle that he may be cast away on a desert island before he has another square meal,” said Arthur, “so he always fills up accordingly.”
“It’s a good principle to go on,” responded Henry Burns. “George, you open the ginger ale.”
So they dined most sumptuously, and had gotten down to nuts and raisins, when Henry Burns, whose ears were always on the alert, suddenly sprang up, with a warning “Sh-h-h,” and, quickly stepping across the room, turned the lamps down, signalling at the same time for the boys to be silent.
Not one of the others had heard a sound; but now they were aware that soft footsteps were pattering along the hallway.
Presently some one came to Henry Burns’s door, turned the knob, and rapped very gently.
Not a sound came from the room.