"Oh, I'm all right, girls! Take your time!" came the voice in the
woods.

"All right!" repeated Hazel in uncertain tones.

"Oh, look!" shrieked Cecilia. "Didn't I tell you it was a joke?
Look!"

What a sight! There, sitting on something like a stool, with a
big cotton umbrella opened over his head, his eyes blinded with
something dark, and his hands and feet made secure, was Paul
Hastings, the chauffeur of the auto stage.

"Whatever does this means?" asked Cora, hurrying to Hazel, who was
now madly snatching the black silk handkerchief from her brother's
eyes.

"A prisoner of war," replied Paul rather unsteadily. "Glad you
came, girls - there, sis, in my back pocket, you will find a
knife. Just cut those carpet rags off my feet and hands."

Cecilia found the pocket knife, and, more quickly than any boy
might have done it, she severed the bonds, and Paul stretched out
- free.

"Well," he exclaimed, "this is about the limit!"

"Did the boys do it?" asked Cora.