e in restless activity.

"Oh, all right," said he. "Let's play robbers and policemen."

"We've left Carrie over the fence," insisted the girl.

"Bother Carrie! Why don't she climb?"

"You come over with us," the girl suggested to Bobby. "You're Bobby
Orde, of course, we know. I'm May Fowler. I live in the big square house
over that way. The boy with the yellow hair is Johnny English. The other
one is Morton Drake. Come on."

"Where is it?" asked Bobby.

"Just over the fence. That's where the Englishes live. Haven't you been
there yet?"

"No," said Bobby.

He leaned his rifle in the barn and followed the disappearing trio. His
doubt as to how the smooth board fence was to be surmounted was soon
resolved. The new-comers evidently knew all the ins and outs. In the
very end of the long woodshed stood a chicken-feed bin. By scrambling to
the top of this, it was just possible to squeeze between the edge of the
roof and the top of the fence. Once there, one had the choice of
descending to the other side or climbing to the shed roof.

The expedition at present led to the other side. Here was no necessity
of dangling, for the two-by-fours running between the posts offered a
graduated descent. Bobby found himself in the back yard of a tall house
that occupied nearly the entire width of the lot. It was a very
impressive cream-brick house. A cement walk led around it from the
front. There were no stables, no clothes-lines, no pumps, nothing to
indicate the kitchen end of a residence. The swift curve of a grassed
terrace dropped from the house-level to that on which Bobby stood. Four
large apple trees, mathematically spaced, would furnish shade in summer.
That the shade was utilized was proved by the presence of a number of
settees, iron chairs and a rustic table or so.

"There's Carrie!" cried May Fowler. "Why didn't you come on over? This
is Bobby Orde who lives over there. This is Caroline English."

"We're going to play robber and policeman," announced Johnny English,
cheerfully.

"All right," said Carrie.

She sat down behind one of those rustic tables.

"She's police sergeant," confided Morton Drake to Bobby. "She's always
police sergeant because she doesn't like to get her clothes dirty."

"Here come the rest! Goody!" cried the alert Johnny as four more
children came racing around the corner of the house.

Robber and policemen was a game absurd in its simplicity. The policemen
pursued the robbers who fled