But I'se a-goin' to fin' out!" she stated with ominous
determination. "How's Ah a-goin' to git mah ironin' done when dere ain't
no heat fo' de iron? Ah asks yo' dat!"
"There are some fuses in the pantry and Jeems will put one in for you,"
Val promised.
With a sniff Lucy withdrew, her fingers still hooked in the collar of
her tearful son. Jeems glanced at Val as he went by the boy's cot. And
Val didn't care for what he read into that glance. Had the swamper by
any foul chance come to suspect Val's little plan?
But it all turned out just as he had hoped. Val made that most momentous
trip in four easy stages, resting on the big chair where Rupert had
spent so many hours, on the bench by the window, in the first of the
deck-chairs by the side of the French doors leading to the terrace, and
then he reached the haven of the last deck-chair and settled down just
where he had intended. And when Jeems returned there was nothing he
could do but accept the fact that Val had fled the cot.
"Miss Ricky won't like this," he prophesied darkly. "Nor Mr. Rupert
neither. Yo' wouldn't've tried it if they'd been heah."
"Oh, stop worrying. If you'd been tied to that cot the way I've been,
you'd be glad to get out here, too. It's great!"
The sun was warm but the afternoon shadow of an oak overhung his seat so
that Val escaped the direct force of the rays. A few feet away Satan
sprawled full length, giving a fine imitation of a cat that had rid
himself of all nine lives, or at least of eight and a half.
Pages:
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220