“We may be tried for horse-stealing next,” remarked Ted, grimly. “Girls, are you perishing?”
“Not a bit of it,” declared Dorothy. “This snow is warm rather than cold.”
“My face is burning,” insisted Mabel. “But I do hope old Sanders does not set his dogs on us.”
“He’s as deaf as a post,” Ted said. “That’s a blessing—this time, at least.”
“There goes Peter in the barn,” Dorothy remarked. “He has got that far safely, at any rate.”
A strained silence followed this announcement. Yes, Peter had gone into the barn. It seemed night would come before he could possibly secure the old horse, and get to the roadway to give the necessary pull to the stalled Fire Bird. They waited, eagerly watching the barn door. Finally it opened. Yes, Peter was coming, leading the horse.
“Now!” said Peter, standing with an emergency rope ready, “if only he gets past the house——”
He stopped. The door of the snow-covered cottage opened, and there stood the unapproachable Sanders.
“Oh!” gasped Mabel. “Now we are in for it!”
“Then,” said Dorothy, “let us be ready for it. I’ll prepare the defence,” and before they realized what she was about to do she had selected one of the very choicest Christmas trees, and with it on her fur-covered shoulder, actually started up the box-wood lined walk to where the much-dreaded Sanders was standing, ready to mete out vengeance on the man who had dared to enter his barn, and take from it his horse.