David
experienced a grewsome, uncanny desire to shiver. He remembered Dick's
admonition and was about to turn to the fireplace, in which the logs
were no longer blazing.
Suddenly the door opened. He could have sworn that the knob had not
turned. There had not been the faintest sound, and yet Dick Cronk
stepped quickly, confidently into the room, a grin on his face. In one
hand he bore a fair-sized package, done up in a napkin.
"You are the ghostliest thing I've ever known," said David with a
nervous laugh of relief. "How do you do it?"
"Simple twist of the wrist," said Dick, employing a phrase of the day.
"Gee, how tired you must be, after pokin' up the fire like that!"
David hastened to do his part of the pantomime. When he turned from
the replenished fireplace a cold supper was spread on the desk, the
napkin serving as a tablecloth. There were knives, forks and spoons,
and a china plate apiece. A pitcher of milk stood at one end, a bottle
of claret at the other, with tumblers beside them. In the center of
the board was a plate of fried chicken, some young onions, freshly
baked bread, salt, pepper, and, most wonderful of all,--Aunt Fanny's
newest marble-cake, huge and aggressive.
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