"Let's go over there and see if we can dry our things," suggested Peggy. "I'm wet through."
"Same here," was the laughing reply; "but a sailor doesn't mind that. One actually gets webbed feet in the navy—like ducks, you know."
Ignoring this remarkable contribution to natural history, Peggy gathered up her skirts daintily and fled across the meadow to the farm-house. It was only a few hundred feet, but the rain came down so hard that both she and her escort were wetter than ever by the time they arrived at the door. It was shut, and except for the lazy wisps of smoke issuing from the chimney, there was no sign of life about the place.
The lieutenant knocked thunderously. No answer.
"Try again," said Peggy; "maybe they are in some other part of the house."
"Perhaps they were scared of the aeroplane and have all retired into hiding," suggested Mr. Bradbury.
He rapped again, louder this time, but still no reply.
"They must all be asleep," he said, applying himself once more to a thunderous assault on the door, but to no avail. A silence hung about the place, broken only by the roar and rattle of the thunder.
"It's positively uncanny," shuddered Peggy. "It's like Red Riding Hood and the Three Little Bears."
"One would think that even a bear would open the door on such an occasion as this," said her companion, redoubling his efforts to attract attention. Finally he gave the door handle a twist. It yielded, and the door was speedily found to be unlocked. The officer shoved it open and disclosed a neat farm-house kitchen. In a newly blackened stove, which fairly shone, was a blazing fire. An old clock ticked sturdily in one corner. The floor was scrubbed as white as snow, and on a shelf above the shining stove was an array of gleaming copper pans that gladdened Peggy's housewifely heart.