"Them mill boys and girls," Shad declared, "just think that the Lord grows
things in the country for anybody to come along and pick. They don't pay
no more attention to a 'No Trespassing' sign than they would to a
woodchuck's tracks. The only thing to do is watch, and when you see 'em
turn in through the bars off the main road, you come down and let me know,
and telephone over for Hannibal Hicks to come and ketch 'em. Hannibal
ain't doin' nothin' to earn his fifteen dollars a year as constable 'round
here, and we ought to help him out if we can."

So to-day, it was Kit's turn to watch the huckleberry patch from the
cupola room, and along towards three o'clock she beheld a trig-looking
red-wheeled, black-bodied wagon, drawn unmistakably by a livery horse,
pull up at the pasture bars, and its driver calmly and shamelessly hitch
there. He took out of the wagon not a burlap bag, but a tan leather hand
bag of generous size, and also something else that looked like a capacious
box with a handle to it.

"Camouflage," said Kit to herself, scornfully. "He's going to fill them
with our berries, and then make believe he's selling books."

Down-stairs she sped with the news. Doris was out at the barn negotiating
peace terms with a half-grown calf that she had been trying to tame for
days, and which still persisted in butting its head every time she came
near it with friendly overtures. Jean and Helen had gone up to Norwich
with Mrs. Robbins for the day, and her father was out in the apple orchard
with Philemon Weaver, spraying the trees against the attacks of the gypsy
moths. Leastwise, Philemon held to spraying, but Mr. Robbins was anxious
to experiment with some of the newer methods advocated by the government.

All unconscious of Kit's intentions or Shad's eagerness to abet them, the