And, this day, Fate played true to form.
As the fire-maker's hand was laid on the trespass board, even as
his inconsequential muscles were braced to rip it loose from its
post,--a squeal from the girl in the blue picture hat and the
Nile-green georgette waist, checked his mirthful activities.
Now, there was nothing remarkable in the fact that the chromatic
lass had squealed. Indeed, she and her equally fair companion had
been squealing at intervals, all morning. But there was nothing
coquettish or gay about this particular squeal. It savored rather
of a screech. In its shrill note was a tiny thread of terror. And
the two men wheeled about, to look.
The blue-hatted girl had paused in her dainty labor of helping to
spread out the lunch; in order to peep inquisitively up the slope
toward the tree-framed house above. It might be fun, after
eating, to stroll up there and squint in through the veranda
windows; or,--if no one was at home, to gather an armful of the
roses that clambered over one end of the porch.
During that brief exploratory glance, her eye had been caught by
something moving through the woods beyond.
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