"Ah!" I cried. "So that's where you are!"
In a second, I had bounded over the squelching celery bed and cabbage patch and reached the tell-tale spot.
"Molly!" I shouted.
The sound of voices reached me from the bowels of the earth! Puzzled and angry, I thrust aside the wet and clammy canes, stepped forward—and suddenly found myself treading on air.
When I had recovered from the jolt and splash, it became apparent that I was now at the bottom of a huge rectangular hole some four or five feet in depth, and that the "floor" on which I stood, ankle deep in mud, rose at a fairly steep angle to the normal level of the garden. With my characteristic bad luck, I had plunged in at the "deep end."
Turning quickly round, I discovered what was obviously the entrance to nothing more nor less than a crudely fashioned "dug-out" or underground retreat, which was shut off from the outer world by an improvised door of patchwork pieces of wood. From behind this, proceeded the faint sound of human voices, apparently shouting some sort of primitive song: "Wah-wah! Wah-wah-woo!"
I listened for a moment or two. Then I sniffed at the unmistakable odor of grilled kippers—the kind of nauseating smell one usually associates with gypsies' tents, caravans and cheap lodging-houses.
Here, at last was the explanation of all these weeks of secrecy and furtiveness on the part of Molly and Gran'pa! This is what had happened through taking them to see the underground scene in "Peter Pan." This was how they showed their gratitude!
I thrust a hand between the soft muddy earth and the top of the "door," tugged, and down it came with a splash, followed by a gush of foul smoke and kipper-laden air.
The "Wah-wah-woo!"-ing ceased, and an ominous silence reigned in its place.