A few days later the maids went away. Dicky saw them off, watched their cab rattle away, and then went into the garden to think out a great plan. His chance had come at last!
That night he bumped his head five times on the pillow.
“I—will—wake—up—at—five,” he said, with each bump. And then he dropped off to sleep with a very happy heart.
In the grey dawn Dicky got up. He stole downstairs on tiptoe. He lit the kitchen fire. He swept the rooms. He whitened the front-doorstep. He blacked his mother’s shoes. He laid the table for breakfast. He put on the kettle. He rummaged in the larder and discovered some bacon and two eggs; and he did it all in a whisper.
At 7.30, just as he had run up to his room for a wash, he heard his mother calling.
“Yes, mother,” he answered from his room.
“Dicky,” she said, “get up at once, and come to my room in a quarter of an hour, to look after baby while I get breakfast ready.”
Dicky laughed to himself. “Yes, mother,” he called.
On tiptoe he ran downstairs again. He made toast; he fried the eggs and bacon (as he had been taught), and made the tea, and put everything on the dining-room table. Then he went upstairs.
“Stay with baby, dear,” said Mrs. Dean wearily, “while I go and get breakfast ready. Oh, how I miss the maids! I’m so tired; baby’s been crying for nurse most of the night. There will be nothing but work all day to get the house straight.” She sighed, and went downstairs.