“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 without had come a most peculiar sound.  A whirring, like the noise one would suppose would be occasioned by a gigantic locust.  Then something—­a huge, indefinite shadow—­darkened the windows of the farm-house kitchen.  Peggy gave a shrill squeal of alarm, while Lieut.  Bradbury gallantly ran to the door and flung it open.

CHAPTER V.

Peggy A heroine.

“It’s—­it’s another aeroplane!” cried the officer, with a shout of amazement.

“What!”

Peggy sprang to her feet.

“A large red one?”

“Yes.  Come here and look.  They’re just running it under the same shed as ours—­yours, I mean.”

The girl aviator sprang toward the door.  Through the rain she peered to where, across the meadow, two dim figures, clad in oilskins, could be seen shoving a big aeroplane under the same shelter that already protected the Golden Butterfly.

“Well, if this isn’t the ultimate!” she gasped.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the young man at her side.

“The ultimate!  That’s my way of expressing what the boys call ‘the limit.’  Why, that’s Jess and Jimsy Bancroft, in their new aeroplane—­the one Roy built for them.  Well, did you ever!  Oh, Jess!  Oh, Jimsy!”

Peggy raised her voice and shouted.  In response they saw the oil-skinned figures turn, and through the driving downpour came an answering shout.  Presently, across the dripping meadows, the two figures began advancing.  All this time the lightning was ripping in a manner to make Peggy shield her eyes occasionally.  The thunder, too, was terrific, and the earth seemed to vibrate to its rolling detonations.