Then he showed Jon the oil tank and the wood shed where the kindling and logs were kept, and Jon filled a sack with the latter and toiled up the narrow stairs with it on his shoulders. The sack was difficult to manoeuvre up the narrow stairs past Penny's room. She was before him - he could hear her singing something quite unrecognizable and banging about with a broom. Suddenly she stopped and he called:

"Open the door, Penny. I'm nearly stuck with this beastly thing."

She heard him and ran over to help him up the last few stairs.

"It's all right," she said. "I found your mother who says we can do what we like and she told that funny old cook to let us have what we wanted for an indoor picnic and the old dear didn't seem too pleased about it when I told her some of the things I thought we should need... I told her we would like a kettle and a saucepan and some coffee and some cocoa because I like cocoa better although you say it's a sissy drink, and some milk, and I thought we could cook some sausages, too, but I hadn't quite got the nerve to ask for a frying pan! Maybe you'd better do that! I think she'll like you. I expect she likes boys best."

She paused for breath and looked fixedly at his feet.

"What's the matter with 'em?" Jon asked as he dropped the sack. "Gosh, but it's dirty in here. It was fresher before you started work on it."

"What have you got on your feet, Jon?" Penny asked.

"It may seem an odd habit to you, but I wear shoes," he explained patiently.

"Have you got rubber soles?" Penny persisted.

Jon stood on one leg to see.

"No, I haven't. Have you gone silly? I know you don't wear shoes before breakfast if you can help it, but I can't see why you're interested in what I wear."

Penny put down her broom.

"Come over here and tell me if you see what I see." She led him over towards the fire, but stopped a yard from the bare hearthstone.

"Look!" she said. "That's not your shoe and it's certainly not mine, and I know that your mother didn't stand over there this morning, and I'd bet anything that she didn't wear rubber soles anyway... Now, can you see it?" and she pointed to the floor which, as yet untouched by her broom, was covered with a thin film of dust. In one place, about a yard from the wall, was the mark of a rubber sole. It was quite clearly defined and there was no mistaking it for anything else.

"Somebody must have brought that box up here," Jon continued. "I expect it was that solicitor chap. Mother could hardly have carried it up those stairs. P'raps Fred did it for her?"