"If you do it, Flukey, I'll do it with ye."

With no more ado, Flukey's practiced fingers silently slid up the sash.
Two youthful bodies stepped through: the opening. In absolute quiet,
they stood raggedly forlorn, savagely hungry, before the tempting table.
There, was plenty to eat; so without a word the squatter girl placed
Squeaky before a glass dish of salad. His small pink nose buried its tip
from sight, and the food disappeared into the suckling's empty stomach.
Snatchet, squatting on his haunches, snapped up a stuffed bird. Flea
began to eat; but Flukey, now too ill, leaned against the red-papered
wall.

Just at this critical moment the door opened, and Flea, greatly
frightened, started back to the window. She blinked, brushed a dark curl
from her eyes, and saw her Prince advancing toward her. He saw her, too;
but did not connect her with the bare-footed girl on Cayuga Lake, but
only with the boy who had kept from him the greased pig at the Dryden
fair. He glanced at Squeaky calmly eating the salad and smiled.

"Bless my soul, Ann!" he said, turning to a lady who had followed him
in, "we have company to dinner, or my name isn't Horace Shellington! Why
didn't you young gentlemen wait, and we should all have been seated
together?"

There was a whirling in Flukey's head, such as he had never felt before;
but Flea's ashen face brought back his scattered senses. He tried to
lift his arm to throw it about her; but dropped it with a groan.
Realizing the agony that had swept over her dear one, Flea gathered in a
deep breath and took his fevered hand in hers.