[Illustration: "HE DIVED INTO THE PANTRY HEAD-FIRST."]
The children crept round to the pantry window. It is at the side of the
house, and there is a green gate labelled "Tradesmen's Entrance," which
is always kept bolted. But if you get one foot on the fence between you
and next door, and one on the handle of the gate, you are over before
you know where you are. This, at least, was the experience of Cyril and
Robert, and even, if the truth must be told, of Anthea and Jane. So in
almost no time all four were in the narrow gravelled passage that runs
between that house and the next.
Then Robert made a back, and Cyril hoisted himself up and got his
knicker-bockered knee on the concrete window-sill. He dived into the
pantry head-first, as one dives into water, and his legs waved in the
air as he went, just as your legs do when you are first beginning
to learn to dive. The soles of his boots--squarish, muddy
patches--disappeared.
"Give us a leg-up," said Robert to his sisters.
"No, you don't," said Jane, firmly. "I'm not going to be left outside
here with just Anthea, and have something creep up behind us out of the
dark. Squirrel can go and open the back door."
A light had sprung awake in the pantry. Cyril always said the Phoenix
turned the gas on with its beak and lighted it with a waft of its wing,
but he was excited at the time and perhaps he really did it himself with
matches, and then forgot all about it. He let the others in by the back
door. And when it had been bolted again and the luggage had been got off
the doorstep the children went all over the house and lighted every
single gas-jet they could find. For they couldn't help feeling that this
was just the dark, dreary winter's evening when an armed burglar might
easily be expected to appear at any moment. There is nothing like light
when you are afraid of burglars, or of anything else, for that matter.
And when all the gas-jets were lighted it was quite clear that the
Phoenix had made no mistake, and that Eliza and cook were really out,
and that there was no one in the house except the four children, and the
Phoenix and the carpet, and the black-beetles who lived in the
cupboards on each side of the nursery fireplace. These last were very
pleased that the children had come home again, especially when Anthea
had lighted the nursery fire. But, as usual, the children treated the
loving little black-beetles with coldness and disdain.
While Anthea was delighting the poor little black-beetles with the
cheerful blaze, Jane had set the table for--I was going to say tea, but
the meal of which I am speaking was not exactly tea. Let us call it a
tea-ish meal. There was tea, certainly, for Anthea's fire blazed and
crackled so kindly that it really seemed to be affectionately inviting
the kettle to come and sit upon its lap. So the kettle was brought and
tea made. But no milk could be found, so everyone had six lumps of sugar
to each cup instead. The things to eat, on the other hand, were nicer
than usual. The boys looked about very carefully, and found in the
pantry some cold tongue, bread, butter, cheese, and part of a cold
pudding--very much nicer than cook ever made when they were at home. And
in the kitchen cupboard were half a Christmassy cake, a pot of
strawberry jam, and about a pound of mixed candied fruit with soft,
crumbly slabs of delicious sugar in each cup of lemon, orange, or
citron.