“‘‘Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the servant,’” quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server.
“‘‘Lay your card on the servant!’” echoed Ross. “Cady’d dodge. There’s a porch to cross after you go up the steps—does it say anything about that?”
“It says that the card should be placed on the servant,” Abner reiterated, doggedly. “If Cady dodges, it ain’t any business of mine. There are no porches in my book. Just walk across it like anybody. We’ll ask for Miss Champe Claiborne.”
“We haven’t got any cards,” discovered Ross, with hope.
“I have,” announced Abner, pompously. “I had some struck off in Chicago. I ordered ’em by mail. They got my name Pillow, but there’s a scalloped gilt border around it. You can write your name on my card. Got a pencil?”
He produced the bit of cardboard; Ross fished up a chewed stump of lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the square with eccentric scribblings.
“They’ll know who it’s meant for,” he said, apologetically, “because I’m here. What’s likely to happen after we get rid of the card?”
“I told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your legs.”
“I remember now,” sighed Ross. They had been going slower and slower. The angle of inclination toward each other became more and more pronounced.
“We must stand by each other,” whispered Abner.