contribution to natural history, Peggy gathered
up her skirts daintily and fled across the meadow to the farm-house. It
was only a few hundred feet, but the rain came down so hard that both she
and her escort were wetter than ever by the time they arrived at the door.
It was shut, and except for the lazy wisps of smoke issuing from the
chimney, there was no sign of life about the place.

The lieutenant knocked thunderously. No answer.

"Try again," said Peggy; "maybe they are in some other part of the house."

"Perhaps they were scared of the aeroplane and have all retired into
hiding," suggested Mr. Bradbury.

He rapped again, louder this time, but still no reply.

"They must all be asleep," he said, applying himself once more to a
thunderous assault on the door, but to no avail. A silence hung about the
place, broken only by the roar and rattle of the thunder.

"It's positively uncanny," shuddered Peggy. "It's like Red Riding Hood and
the Three Little Bears."

"One would think that even a bear would open the door on such an occasion
as this," said her companion, redoubling his efforts to attract attention.
Finally he gave the door handle a twist. It yielded, and the door was
speedily found to be unlocked. The officer shoved it open and disclosed a
neat farm-house kitchen. In a newly blackened stove, which fairly shone,
was a blazing fire. An old clock ticked sturdily in one corner. The floor
was scrubbed as white as snow, and on a shelf above the shining stove was
an array of gleaming copper pans that gladdened Peggy's housewifely heart.

"What a dear of a place!" she exclaimed. "But where are the folks who own
it?"

"Haven't the least idea," said the officer gayly; "but that stove looks
inviting to me. Let's get over to it and get dried out a bit. Then we can
commence to investigate."

"But, really, you know, we've not the least right in here. Suppose they
mistake us for burglars, and shoot us?"

"Not much danger of that. They'd shoot me first, anyhow, because I'm the
most burglarious looking of the two. Queer, though, where they all can
be."

"It's worse than queer--it's weird. Good gracious!" exclaimed Peggy, as a
sudden thought struck her, "suppose there should be trapdoors?"

"Trapdoors!" Her companion was plainly puzzled.

"Yes. You know in most books when two folks run across a deserted
farm-house there's always a trapdoor or a ghost or something.
Suppose----Good heavens, what's that?"

From w