Oliver passed it to Ted, who read it, grinned, and saluted, nearly knocking
over the hatrack.

"For _God's_ sake!" said Oliver in a piercing whisper, "Jane Ellen will
think that's Indians!"

Both listened frantically for a moment, holding their breath. But there was
no sound from upstairs except an occasional soft rumbling. Oliver had often
wondered what would happen if the whole sleeping family chanced to breathe
in and out in unison some unlucky night. He could see the papery walls
blown apart like scraps of cardboard--Aunt Elsie falling, falling with her
bed from her little bird-house under the eaves, giving vent to one deaf,
terrified "Hey--what's that?" as she sank like Lucifer cast from Heaven
inexorably down into the laundry stove, her little tight, white curls
standing up on end....

Ted had removed his shoes and was making for the stairs with the
exaggerated caution of a burglar in a film.

"'Night!" called Oliver softly.

"G' night! Where's my bed--next the wall? Good--then I won't step on
Dickie. And if you fall over me when you come in, I'll bay like a
bloodhound!"

"I'll look out. Be up in a minute myself. Going to write a letter."

"So I'd already deduced, Craig Kennedy, my friend. Well, give her my love!"