"How heavenly quiet," she had been saying to the rustling leaves. "Now I am going to work and make up for lost time." Everything at Happy House seemed to be back on what Nancy called a "peace-basis." "I must go down to the village and tell Webb what a dear he was to make this seat," she had thought, as she climbed into it.
Then, just as her inspired pencil had written "Act 4" across the top of a clean sheet, had come the strange words, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Well, I never!" Nancy peeped all around. The sound came apparently from under the cliff. "Who is it? And how could anyone get there."
The voice—a boy's—was rattling on in a succession of sharp commands. Nancy crept toward the edge and peeped over. There, to her amazement, on a strip of sand beach in an indentation of the shore, marched and counter-marched a small boy, quite alone. He was a funny, snub-nosed, tousled headed boy in ragged blouse and blue jeans—and, clearly, very much in earnest, for a deep scowl wrinkled his freckled face.
"At-ten-shun! Shoulder arms—right face—forward, march." Three feet length of bare-footed manliness stepped briskly across the sand. "Step up, you Dick Snead," and a domineering arm swept out toward an imaginary lagger in the rear.
"Was there ever anything so funny?" giggled Nancy, crouching in the tall grass at the top of the cliff. "And what is it? Fairies don't come in over-alls, and I don't think they ever liked military drill, either."
She loosened a stone and let it roll down the bank. Startled, the youngster lifted his glance to the top of the bank.
"Hello," called Nancy.
A heavy scowl answered her friendly greeting.
"What are you doing?"