“Indeed I have.  Last summer I was off Montauk Point in the Dixie.  Something went wrong with the steering gear just as one of these self-same young hurricanes came bustling up.  I tell you, it was “all hands and the cook” for a while.  It hardly blows much harder in a typhoon.”

Peggy gazed below her over the darkening landscape anxiously.  There seemed to be trees, trees everywhere, and not a bit of cleared ground.  All at once, as they cleared some woods, she spied a bit of meadowland.  The hay which had covered it earlier in the summer had been cropped.  It afforded an ideal landing-place.  But the wind was puffy now, and Peggy did not dare to attempt short descending spirals.  Instead, trusting to the balancing device doing its duty faithfully, she swung down in long circles.

Just as they touched the ground with a gentle shock, much minimized, thanks to the shock-absorbers with which the Golden Butterfly was fitted, the storm burst in all its fury.  Bolt after bolt of vivid lightning ripped and tore across the darkened sky, which hung like a pall behind the terrific electrical display.  The rain came down in torrents.

“Just in time,” laughed the young officer, as he aided Peggy in dragging the aeroplane under the shelter of an open cart-shed.  It was quite snug and dry once they had it under the roof.  A short distance off stood a farm-house of fairly comfortable appearance.  Smoke issuing from one of its chimneys showed that it was occupied.

“Let’s go over there and see if we can dry our things,” suggested Peggy.  “I’m wet through.”

“Same here,” was the laughing reply; “but a sailor doesn’t mind that.  One actually gets webbed feet in the navy—­like ducks, you know.”

Ignoring this remarkable 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.”