“Somebody’ll tell.”
“Who cares after I’ve eaten ’em?”
“I’ll try,” and Kate ran down to eat her own breakfast. It was lonely at the table. The cakes choked her. She couldn’t eat. She buttered and sugared a plateful for Frank, tossed up one or two, but the window was too high, and the cakes fell on the ground.
“I know a way,” she shouted, and presently Kate appeared on the staircase with the plate of cakes in one hand and a broom in the other.
A few minutes later Frank heard a voice that seemed to come out of the sky; at any rate it came in at his window, saying,
“Here, Frank, here’s your cakes,” and Kate reached out from the window next to Frank’s the handle of the broom, around which she had tied the cakes.
Frank took in the broom, saying,
“Jolly for you! Is this all you can get?”
“I guess there’s more. I’ll see,” and away went Kate to the kitchen.
“Laws me!” said the cook, “who wants cakes?”