lookout. Blinksboro, on the main road, did not answer. Knapp's
Crossroads had gone to a harvest festival and forgotten to come back.
No answer. Lonehaven couldn't get the name of the car but said it would
watch out for a Plunkabunk. Wakeville said no car could possibly get
through there as there wasn't any road. Miss Dolly Bobbitt returned to
her novel.

And meanwhile the scout raised a mighty hand up into the vast, starry
heaven, like some giant traffic cop....

"Pull that canvas cover off it," said Nick to his comrade who had just
come up the ladder. "The blamed thing's all rotten anyway, I guess.
Strike a match and find where the switch is. Look out you don't slip in
the hole. Look at all the confetti and stuff," he added hurriedly, as
the tiny flame of the match illuminated a small area of the little
cupola. "War's over, huh?"

There upon the floor were strewn the gay many-colored little paper
particles, plastered against the wood by many a rain, mementos of the
night when even West Ketchem arose and poured this festive, fluttering
stuff down necks and into windows. Someone who had thought to throw the
search-light on the flag across the street, had spilled some of
insinuating stuff in the little cupola. How old and stale, and a part of
the forgotten past, the war seemed! And these once gay memorials of its
ending were all washed out and as colorless as the big spiders that
claimed the little cupola as their own. It smelled musty up there. And
whenever a match was lighted the spiders started in their webs. A lonely
bat, settled for the winter, hung like an old stiff dishrag from a beam.

"Did you find the switch?" Nick asked, as he fumbled hastily with the