In the pantry, which, planning for the future, he had entered several times already by the small serving window, he had noticed in a casual way that there was a door set into the wall. It was a square door, a cupboard door he supposed, set about three feet above the floor. One day he gave it a whack by accident, and hearing that the whack made an unusually hollow drumlike sound, he decided to open the door. It was hard work to get it open because it was stuck in its frame. (Everything in the house was stuck, being swollen with damp and disuse, and all the Blakes developed good muscles and bad blisters that summer simply from the amount of lifting, yanking, shoving, pushing, and pulling that was required of them.) Finally, though, Foster managed to wrench the thing open, and looked in at what appeared to be a very small elevator in a shaft. "Hey, Dave!" yelled Foster. "Come look at this!" Davey came from the kitchen, where he had been industriously grinding up acorns in the coffee grinder; a fact unknown to Mrs. Blake. "What is it?" he inquired. "An elevator?" "Not for people. Maybe for dogs," said Foster, who had never seen a dumb-waiter in his life. "Maybe for children?" Davey wondered. "Well, come on. What are we waiting for?" invited Foster; and he hiked himself up and into the box of the dumb-waiter. "Come on in, Dave; there's room for two if we sit kind of squeezy." Davey fitted himself in by Foster. It was rich with dust in there, but by now they were very much at home with dust, so who cared. They had to sit cross-legged and pull in their elbows, and if they had been a few years older, they would have had to bend their heads down, too, but as it was they fitted very well. Foster grasped the prickly hemp rope that hung at one side, gave it a tug, and with a croak and a wobble, their elevator rose up in the shaft. "Man!" cried Davey in delight. "Give her another yank, Foss, and see if she goes up to the roof!" It was dark as they went up the shaft, but not badly dark, not pitch dark, because the door below stood open, letting in the light. Foster maneuvered the dumb-waiter up as far as it would go: to another door on the next story, but there was no latch on the inside, so of course they couldn't open it. Then they went down to the first floor and then up again. The ascending box lurched pleasantly on its rope, knocking against the walls of the shaft now and then and creaking and croaking as it went. "Up to Pluto, up to the moon!" cried Foster. "Up to the moon in an old soup spoon!" sang Davey, in a burst of inspiration. This seemed so terribly funny to them both that they began to giggle. They reached the top of the shaft again with a bump, and paused there in the exciting darkness that was not dark enough to be scary. "Up to the moon in an old jelly spoon!" sang Foster, and the giggles redoubled.