George was in favor of ripping up the pantry floor. He ran and got his hammer, his screw driver, and an ice pick.

“I’ll have this old floor up in double-quick time,” he said, inserting his screw driver under the edge of the first board and giving a good vigorous pry¹.

“We will not rip up this floor till we have had a good search,” announced Mr. Little. “That’s final, George! You can put that hammer away where you got it.”

“Oh, all right,” said George. “I see that nobody in this house cares anything about Stuart but me.”

Mrs. Little began to cry. “My poor dear little son!” she said. “I know he’ll get wedged somewhere.”

“Just because you can’t travel comfortably in a mousehole doesn’t mean that it isn’t a perfectly² suitable place for Stuart,” said Mr. Little. “Just don’t get yourself all worked up.”

“Maybe we ought to lower some food to him,” suggested George. “That’s what the State Police did when a man got stuck in a cave.” George darted³ into the kitchen and came running back with a dish of applesauce. “We can pour some of this in, and it will run down to where he is.” George spooned out a bit of the applesauce and started to poke⁴ it into the hole.

“Stop that!” bellowed⁵ Mr. Little. “George, will you kindly⁶ let me handle this situation? Put that applesauce away immediately!”

Mr. Little glared fiercely at George.

“I was just trying to help my own brother,” said George, shaking his head as he carried the sauce back to the kitchen.

“Let’s all call to Stuart,” suggested Mrs. Little. “It is quite possible that the mousehole branches and twists about, and that he has lost his way.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Little. “I will count three, then we will all call, then we will all keep perfectly quiet for three seconds, listening for the answer.” He took out his watch.

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