Then the flap of the letter-box
lifted itself--every one saw it by the flickering light of the
gas-lamp that shone through the leafless lime-tree by the gate--a
golden eye seemed to wink at them through the letter-slit, and a
cautious beak whispered--
'Are you alone?'
'It's the Phoenix,' said every one, in a voice so joyous, and so
full of relief, as to be a sort of whispered shout.
'Hush!' said the voice from the letter-box slit. 'Your slaves have
gone a-merry-making. The latch of this portal is too stiff for my
beak. But at the side--the little window above the shelf whereon
your bread lies--it is not fastened.'
'Righto!' said Cyril.
And Anthea added, 'I wish you'd meet us there, dear Phoenix.'
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.
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