dropped in to have a look at the turkeys,” Bob told him. “We’re—” But Jim stepped on his foot.

“What’s the matter?” He broke in quickly. “We’re not going to hurt anything. We’ve never seen a turkey farm and we heard that you have a fine one here.”

“You’re right you’re not going to hurt anything, and you’re not going to see this turkey farm. Hear! Now, get out! You’re on private property and I’ll have the law on you! Don’t you see them signs, ‘No Trespassing’, right there!” He pointed to a large sign hung between two trees and it plainly warned off inquisitive, or interested spectators. “Go on, now, get out.”

Bob glanced questioningly at his step-brother. He had started to tell the caretaker who they were, feeling sure that the information would naturally assure them a very different reception, but for some reason or other, the older boy wanted to withhold the fact. Just then the man broke off a dry branch, raised it over his head, and prepared to throw it.

“Move out of his range,” Jim said tensely. “He might land that in our propeller or tail.” Bob sent Her Highness scurrying over the water and the stick fell harmlessly behind the plane.

“The ornery old cuss,” Bob growled at the indignity. He whirled the plane about, held her nose low, and set the propeller racing. Instantly it kicked up a spray of water that shot out on all sides, and before the man could move, he was drenched to the skin.

“Confound your hides,” he bellowed, but Her Highness was circling away, then she lifted, climbed swiftly and started homeward. Bob taxied her low across the two miles of water, and brought her down close to the boat pier, where she “rode at anchor.”

“Boys, dinner’s ready.” Mrs. Fenton, a typical, tall, slender Vermont woman, came out onto the back veranda of the old house.

“So are we,” Bob shouted. The plane made secure, they raced around the curve, across the wide, sloping lawn, up the high stairs, and into the living-room.

“There’s basins outside to wash up,” Mrs. Fenton told them, and soon they were splashing the cold water over their faces, and lathering their hands with the cake of home-made soap.

“Well, you lads get a good look at Vermont?” Mr. Fenton joined them at his own basin. He too was tall and slender, with kindly grey eyes, and a broad smile. Although they had never seen him 

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