Sampson conducted them into the attic, where many suits and dresses hung on pegs along the walls.
“Here is the wardrobe,” he said. “I think you will find everything you may need. And yonder is a mirror.” With a bow he withdrew.
“Well,” exclaimed David, when the servant was out of earshot, “what do you make of all this?”
“Sir Peter is certainly much more amiable than I’d been led to suppose,” mused Tuckerman. “There’s nothing of the hermit about him.”
“He’s a bird!” chuckled Tom. “I’ll bet he gives us a mighty fine supper.”
“I don’t blame him a bit for wanting to keep those roughnecks over in Barmouth from melting up his silver,” Ben asserted.
“See here, you fellows,” broke in David, “I want to know what’s the game.”
“Game?” echoed Ben.
“Game?” said Tom. “What do you mean?”
“Game?” repeated Tuckerman, and his tone was a trifle indignant. “I don’t call it a game when a gentleman like Sir Peter Cotterell invites us to his party.”