Peace Manoeuvres | Page 4

the
two other villages, I'll stop here.
"It's a two to one shot against me, any way," he growled.
Kneeling in the road he spun the wheel, and as intently as at Monte
Carlo and Palm Beach he had waited for other wheels to determine his
fortune, he watched it come to rest. It stopped with the plug pointing
back to Middleboro.
The scout told himself he was entitled to another trial. Again he spun
the wheel. Again the spokes flashed in the sun. Again the puncture
rested on the road to Middleboro.
"If it does that once more," thought the scout, "it's a warning that there
is trouble ahead for me at Carver, and all the little Carvers."
For the third time the wheel flashed, but as he waited for the impetus to
die, the sound of galloping hoofs broke sharply on the silence. The
scout threw himself and his bicycle over the nearest stone wall, and,
unlimbering his rifle, pointed it down the road.
He saw approaching a small boy, in a white apron, seated in a white
wagon, on which was painted, "Pies and Pastry. East Wareham." The
boy dragged his horse to an abrupt halt.
"Don't point that at me!" shouted the boy.
"Where do you come from?" demanded the scout.
"Wareham," said the baker.
"Are you carrying any one concealed in that wagon?"
As though to make sure the baker's boy glanced apprehensively into the
depths of his cart, and then answered that in the wagon he carried
nothing but fresh-baked bread. To the trained nostrils of the scout this
already was evident. Before sunrise he had breakfasted on hard tack
and muddy coffee, and the odor of crullers and mince pie, still warm,
assailed him cruelly. He assumed a fierce and terrible aspect.
"Where are you going?" he challenged.
"To Carver Centre," said the boy.
To chance Lathrop had left the decision. He believed the fates had
answered.

Dragging his bicycle over the stone wall, he fell into the road.
"Go on," he commanded. "I'll use your cart for a screen. I'll creep
behind the enemy before he sees me."
The baker's boy frowned unhappily.
"But supposing," he argued, "they see you first, will they shoot?"
The scout waved his hand carelessly.
"Of course," he cried.
"Then," said the baker, "my horse will run away!"
"What of it?" demanded the scout. "Are Middleboro, South Middleboro,
Rock, Brockton, and Boston to fall? Are they to be captured because
you're afraid of your own horse? They won't shoot REAL bullets! This
is not a real war. Don't you know that?"
The baker's boy flushed with indignation.
"Sure, I know that," he protested; "but my horse--HE don't know that!"
Lathrop slung his rifle over his shoulder and his leg over his bicycle.
"If the Reds catch you," he warned, in parting, "they'll take everything
you've got."
"The Blues have took most of it already," wailed the boy. "And just as
they were paying me the battle begun, and this horse run away, and I
couldn't get him to come back for my money."
"War," exclaimed Lathrop morosely, "is always cruel to the innocent."
He sped toward Carver Centre. In his motor car, he had travelled the
road many times, and as always his goal had been the home of Miss
Beatrice Farrar, he had covered it at a speed unrecognized by law. But
now he advanced with stealth and caution. In every clump of bushes he
saw an ambush. Behind each rock he beheld the enemy.
In a clearing was a group of Portuguese cranberry pickers, dressed as
though for a holiday. When they saw the man in uniform, one of the
women hailed him anxiously.
"Is the parade coming?" she called.
"Have you seen any of the Reds?" Lathrop returned.
"No," complained the woman. "And we been waiting all morning.
When will the parade come?"
"It's not a parade," said Lathrop, severely. "It's a war!"
The summer home of Miss Farrar stood close to the road. It had been
so placed by the farmer who built it, in order that the women folk might
sit at the window and watch the passing of the stage- coach and the

peddler. Great elms hung over it, and a white fence separated the road
from the narrow lawn. At a distance of a hundred yards a turn brought
the house into view, and at this turn, as had been his manoeuvre at
every other possible ambush, Lathrop dismounted and advanced on
foot. Up to this moment the road had been empty, but now, in front of
the Farrar cottage, it was blocked by a touring-car and a station wagon.
In the occupants of the car he recognized all the members of the Farrar
family, except Miss Farrar. In the station wagon