“What do you think?” said she diplomatically.
Tom, of course, had thought the problem out.
“We must keep it dark from the slaveys,” said he, “at least till everybody comes, then they’re bound to give us a leg up. I fancy we can scrape a thing or two up from what’s in the house. And I’ve called in at one or two of the shops at Yeld and told them to send up some things addressed to ‘Miss J. Oliphant—private.’ There was rather a nice lot of herrings just in, so I got three dozen of them cheap. Then I told them at the confectioner’s to send up all the strawberry ices they could in the time, and 150 buns. You see everybody is sure not to come, so there’ll be plenty to go round.”
“Didn’t Mr Rusk ask what they were for?” inquired Jill.
“I said Mr Oliphant presented his kind regards, and would be glad to have the things sharp.”
Next morning, greatly to the delight of the hospitable pair, the herrings came up in a basket, addressed privately to Miss Jill. Later in the day tradesmen’s carts rattled up the back drive with similar missives, not a little to the bewilderment of the servants of the house, who shook their heads and wished Mrs Parker would make a speedy recovery.
Tom adroitly captured the booty, and half won over Raffles to aid and abet in the great undertaking.
“Good old Raffy,” said he, as the two staggered across the hall with one of Miss Jill’s private boxes between them; “would you like a threepenny bit?”
Raffles, whose ideas of a tip were elastic, admitted that he was open to receive even the smallest coin.
“All right, mum’s the word. Jill and I have a thing on, and we don’t want it spoiled by the slaveys.”