Mother Kemp kept a general shop—that is to say, she retailed tallow, treacle, rope, bacon, herrings, soap, cottons, tops, balls, butter, sweets, and so forth; and she not only, as a rule, sold us a supper out of her heterogeneous store, but cooked it, if needs were, and served it for us in her back parlour—that is, if we could pay ready cash down.
This night of which I speak we could not. We had appealed to Madame Kemp's motherly heart for "trust," in vain, and we were returning home in a state of double the hunger to that in which we had started, on account of our hopes being unfulfilled, when Charlie Boston made a remark in a melancholy tone: it was—
"I wonder if the pantry window is open."
We eyed him askance and in silence.
"And if," with a frown of determination on his brow, "there is anything inside!"
Then we knew we were "in" for something, be it to eat or feel, and followed him half in hope, half in fear.
The window was open. Looking upon that casement from my point of view now, I decide it was an architectural folly, being no more than seven feet from the ground, and innocent of bars or protection of any kind, and moreover large enough for any one of moderate size to creep through.
From our point of view, then, we thought it a very jolly contrivance.
"Hurrah!" shouted Boston, sotto voce—in fact, very much sotto voce—"we will indeed sup at the doctor's expense to-night, bless him!—eh, boys?"
Either to the supper or blessing we assented, joyfully; but when our chief asked who was for reconnoitring, the question was received in silence.