"Lord love you, Master Bobby! What are you playing at now?" inquired Joe's wife with wide-eyed amazement.
"I am Robert Carter, of the Secret Service," said Bobby, icily, as he walked to the rear of the buckboard and commenced his search. "Ha! What is this?" He raised the towel that covered the basket and suspiciously peered inside. It contained two pies, a quantity of doughnuts, and a jar of cherry preserves. "Madam, may I ask where you obtained these articles?" His manner was so stern that she stammered her reply with an air of convicted guilt.
"I—I made them myself. They're for Joe in the hospital."
"H'm!" said Bobby. "As they are for charitable purposes, I will not confiscate the entire lot." He gravely abstracted two of the most sugary doughnuts and transferred them to his pocket. "These will be sufficient to exhibit at headquarters with a description of the rest. Please favour me with your names and addresses."
Peter complied in all seriousness. Evidently, his was a case of dual personality; he represented the local police only when he was not acting as coachman. He drove on with an amused grin. After all, the boys and their escapades added to the dull routine of daily life a spice of adventure which most twentieth century households lacked; the entertainment they furnished paid for the trouble they caused.
Three hours later Peter set down Joe's wife at the door of the cottage and drove on to the stables. As he rounded the corner, he perceived an excited group gathered under the apple tree where he had left Annie and her kindergarten class.
"There he is!" cried Nora. "Peter! Come here quick."
Peter threw the lines to an adjacent groom—the one who had been told not to leave the stables—and hurriedly joined the circle. He found Annie collapsed on her bench beside the baby-carriage, rocking back and forth, and sobbing convulsively, while the other servants crowded about her.
"What's the matter?" he gasped.