e Deeping.

"Where are we going?" said Erebus.

"We're going to make him that apple-pie bed. There's nothing like
making a beginning. We shall think of heaps of other things. If we
don't worry about them, they'll occur to us. They always do," said the
Terror, at once practical and philosophical.

They walked briskly down to The Plough, the one inn of Little Deeping,
where, as usual, Captain Baster was staying, and went in through the
front door which stood open. At the sound of their footsteps in her
hall the stout but good-humored landlady came bustling out of the bar
to learn what they wanted.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Pittaway," said the Terror politely. "We've come
for Captain Baster's cigarette-case. He's left it somewhere in his
room."

At the thought of handling the shining cigarette-case Mrs. Pittaway
rubbed her hands on her apron; then the look of favor with which her
eyes had rested on the fair guileless face of the Terror, changed to a
frown; and she said: "Bother the thing! It's sure to be stuck
somewhere out of sight. And the bar full, too."

"Don't you trouble; I'll get it. I know the bedroom," said the Terror
with ready amiability; and he started to mount the stairs.

"Oh, thank you, sir," said Mrs. Pittaway, bustling back to the bar.

Erebus and Wiggins dashed lightly up the stairs after the Terror. In
less than two minutes the deft hands of the Twins had dealt with the
bed; and their intelligent eyes were eagerly scanning the hapless
unprotected bedroom. Erebus sprang to the shaving-brush on the
mantelpiece and thrust it under the mattress. The Terror locked
Captain Baster's portmanteau; and as he placed the keys beside the
shaving-brush, he said coldly:

"That'll teach him not to be so careless."

Erebus giggled; then she took the water-jug and filled one of Captain
Baster's inviting dress-boots with water. Wiggins rocked with laughter.

"Don't stand giggling there! Why don't you do something?" said Erebus
sharply.

Wiggins looked thoughtful; then he said: "A clothes-brush in bed is
very annoying when you stick your foot against it."

He stepped toward the dressing-table; but the Terror was before him.
He took the clothes-brush and set it firmly, bristles outward, against
the bottom of the folded sheet of the apple-pie bed, where one or the
other of Captain Baster's feet was sure to find it. The Terror did not
care which foot was successful.

Then inspiration failed them;