"Oh, no, sir," said Perkins, loftily, "oh, no, sir, she won't freeze.
Nothing freezes in that there box, sir."
"Well, she will die of cold," said the Judge. "Don't be a blockhead,
Perkins, we have got to get her out now—at once—Perkins."
"All right, sir," said Perkins, "then I'll have to go for a locksmith, sir—"
"Can't you take off the lock?" asked the Judge.
Perkins drew himself up. "That's not my work, sir," he said, stiffly, "no, sir, I can't take off no locks, sir," and so the Judge had to be content, while the independent Perkins hunted up a locksmith and brought him to the scene of disaster.
It was a white and somewhat cowed Judy that came out of the ice-box.
"Make her a cup of strong coffee, Perkins," commanded the Judge, as he received the woebegone heroine in his arms, "and take it up to her room, with something to eat with it."
"I don't want anything to eat," Judy declared. "There's everything to eat in that awful box—enough for an army—but I don't feel as if I could ever eat again," in a tone of martyr-like dolefulness.
"Them things in there is for the picnic, miss," said Perkins. "It's lucky you and Miss Anne didn't eat them," and he cast on the culprit a look of utter condemnation.
At the word "picnic," Anne's soul sank within her. She had forgotten all about the picnic in the excitement of the evening, all about Judy's anger and the confession she was to make of the plans for Saturday.