We keep our gardening suits and our raincoats and such things in there.

Why do you ask ?" By way of reply, Gavin crossed the hall in two silent strides, his muscles tensed and his head lowered.

Seizing the knob, he flung the closet door wide open, wellnigh sweeping the indignant Simon Cameron off his furry feet.
At first glance, the closet's interior revealed only a more or less orderly array of hanging raincoats and aprons and overalls.

Then, all three of the onlooking humans focused their eyes upon a pair of splayed and grimy bare feet which protruded beneath a somewhat bulging raincoat of Milo's.
Brice thrust his arm in, between this coat and a gardening apron, and jerked forth a silently squirming youth, perhaps eighteen years old, swarthy and undersized.
"Well!" exclaimed Gavin, holding his writhing prize at arm's length, "Simon Cameron must have a depraved taste in playmates, if he tries to choose this one! A regular beach combing conch! Probably a clay-eater, at that." He spoke the words with seeming carelessness, but really with deliberate intent.

For the glum silence of a conch is a hard thing for any outsider to break down.