“It certainly sounds like it,” said Violet in a voice tremulous with excitement, as she reached down and gave the trunk another jerk just for the fun of hearing its contents jingle.

“Well, let’s get it downstairs,” suggested Laura, wildly impatient to see the treasure, if treasure it were.  “We certainly can’t open it ourselves without a key.  Oh, if the boys were only at home!” she added with an impatient little stamp of her foot “It seems to me they’re never around when you want them.”

“Maybe we can call them back.  They haven’t had time to go far,” said Billie, stirred to instant action by the thought.  “Come on Laura, you take one end, Vi can steady it at the side, and we’ll at least get the trunk downstairs.  That’s the way!  Now then!”

After a good deal of pushing and lugging, and a spasm of fright when the trunk almost fell on Laura, they finally succeeded in getting their burden down to the second floor.

There the girls left it and started hastily down the stairs in pursuit of the boys.  They had gone only half the way, however, when they were startled by a tremendous crash and explosion outside and stood still, their hearts in their mouths.

“Oh, now what has happened?” cried Violet as they rushed down the rest of the steps and started for the front door.

Half way to the door Mrs. Gilligan met them, holding a rat trap in her hand from which hung, suspended, a dead rat.

“Where did you get that?” the girls cried in chorus.

“It’s Mr. Rat, the piano player,” said Mrs. Gilligan, adding as she pushed past them and ran to the door:  “Did you hear that awful noise outside, girls?”

“Did we hear it?” they cried, following her.

“Oh, Mrs. Gilligan, what do you suppose it was?” asked Violet, pressing close to her.

“Somebody is probably hurt,” answered the woman, adding as though to herself:  “Terribly hurt!  Hope it ain’t the boys!”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WRECKED AEROPLANE

The girls never remembered very clearly what happened after that.  They had a vague and confused recollection of seeing the boys gathered around something in the bushes at the brook that groaned a little and made queer sputtering noises.

Then the boys bent down and began extricating the groaning thing from the wreck of something.

“Chet, what is it?” cried Billie, with an impression that she was living a dream.  She tried to push past him, but her brother stopped her.

“Stay away, Sis,” he ordered.  “The poor fellow’s hurt—­we don’t know how badly—­and I’d rather you would go back to the house.”

“But if he’s hurt, there’s all the more need for us,” insisted Billie, sudden decision in her voice.  “We know first aid.  Let us past, boys.”

Not exactly knowing why they obeyed her, the boys drew aside and she ran to the side of the prostrate figure on the ground, the other girls following half reluctantly.