THE DESERTED HOUSE
"Wonderful, wonderful!" murmured Henrietta in the tones of the famous Watson.
Bartlett looked at the house and nodded gloomily. "I guess you are right. Funny they should have left without writing me about it. I have known them for years."
"I will get the blue book," said the general, with the calm satisfaction of one who at last comes into his own. "We can return to the nearest village—"
"What do we want a blue book to do that for?" sneered Bartlett. "I should think two motor-cars could do it, provided we followed the road."
"Hold on a shake," said the Watermelon. "I will get in a window and open the door."
"We had better not," objected Henrietta, "Wouldn't that be house-breaking?"
The general agreed. "Certainly. It is warm and we can spend the night outside quite comfortably if you do not want to return to the village."
Billy shuddered and glanced appealingly at the Watermelon. A deserted house was bad enough, but outside where the owls called dismally from the woods and where bats flitted by in the dark held possibilities infinitely worse.
"I have known these people longer than I have Billy," said Bartlett. "I used to come here when I was a kid. It will be all right to break in. They are like my own folks."