Spiderweb for Two - A Melendy Maze by Elizabeth Enright Page A

She’s growing,” Cuffy said. “I declare I think she must have grown a yard this year. They measured you yet at school, Randy?”
    Luckily Randy was saved from having to answer this question by a sudden shrill whistle from the kitchen kettle which always took this hysterical method of proclaiming that the water was now boiling. Cuffy hurried into the kitchen to catch it before it literally blew its top, or rather its whistle-spout, wildly into the air.
    â€œOliver!” whispered Randy urgently.
    â€œHunh? What are you whispering for? Why don’t you talk out loud?” asked Oliver in clear full tones.
    â€œSh-h-h,” hissed Randy, fierce as a cobra. “I can’t, that’s why. I’ve got laryngitis, and my voice is gone. If Cuffy finds out she won’t let me out of the house, and I won’t be able to go clue hunting. Help me, will you? If she asks many questions, think of something! Do something!”
    â€œWell, gee, I’ll try.”
    Cuffy came back into the dining room with the coffeepot and a platter of bacon and eggs. “You young ones! Always whispering! Such conspiracies and secrets.” She sat down comfortably. “And what, if I may ask, are you two going to do today?”
    â€œOh, well, I guess we’ll go out,” said Oliver lamely. “Just go out or something.”
    â€œThat’s a good comprehensive answer,” said Cuffy dryly. “That way I get a real vivid picture of the day’s activities. Randy, why aren’t you eating your oatmeal?”
    â€œShe is,” said Oliver hastily. “She’s eating it now, Cuffy, see?” And it was true that Randy had suddenly begun to devour the oatmeal with wild haste. She did not care much for oatmeal, she never had, but Cuffy was firm in her belief that the consumption of large quantities of old-fashioned porridge would help to build a noble character.
    â€œYou don’t need to take it quite so fast, Randy. This is Saturday, you know; there’s nothing to hurry for.”
    â€œThere’s everything to hurry for on Saturday, ” argued Oliver. “There’s just one Saturday in the week. The schooldays could all be each other: they could all be Monday or Thursday or something, but Saturday is different and all by itself. So is Sunday; but Saturday’s best.”
    â€œI—” began Randy; but stopped herself in time, turning the queer, croaking whisper into a cough. She had been about to argue that the days of the week all seemed different to her; they had different colors, even. Monday was blue, for instance; Tuesday was yellow, Wednesday red, and so on.
    â€œHave you written to your brothers and sister this week, Randy?” asked Cuffy.
    â€œ I have,” said Oliver quickly. “I wrote one letter and copied it off to each of ’em. I told about the Northern lights and the Regalis cocoon and Willy’s bunion—”
    â€œYes, my lamb, I know. I helped with the spelling, remember? But you, Randy, did you get around to it?”
    Randy smiled and nodded her head.
    â€œWell, that’s good. Here Randy, honey, here’s your eggs and bacon. My what a lovely day! What a lovely long fall we’re having. Means a cold winter they say. ”
    Cuffy sipped her coffee slowly and luxuriously: she held the cup between her two plump hands and stared dreamily over the edge of it through the steam. Randy ate industriously, not daring to look up for fear of bringing on more questions.
    â€œI’m glad you children are taking advantage of the weather. Out all day, that’s the best thing. Who are you going to play with? The Cottons? Daphne Addison? How is Daphne, anyway?”
    â€œShe’s fine,” said Oliver at once, though Daphne was more Randy’s friend than his, and he had not seen her in a month.
    â€œThat’s good, she’s a nice girl. Randy, more toast?”
    Randy smiled again and shook her