ding doors. On its flat roof the forms of a dozen or more
glazed skylights upreared themselves jauntily.

"No, it's a work-shop of some sort. But what? Old man Harding is
interested in it, that's one thing sure. I heard, too, that while we were
away, cases of machinery had arrived and been delivered there, and that
active work of some sort had been going forward ever since," rejoined Roy,
who was clad in white tennis flannels, with white shoes and an outing
shirt, set off by a dark-red necktie.

"See Roy," cried Peggy suddenly, "they're putting up some sort of sign on
it, or else I'm very much mistaken."

"So they are. I see men on some ladders, and now, look Peg, they are
carrying up a big board with something painted on it. Perhaps at last the
mystery will be solved, as they say in the dime novels."

"Can you read the printing on that sign?" inquired Peggy.

"Not a word. I can see the letters to know that they are printed
characters, but that's all. Tell you what, Peg, just run and get those
glasses we used on the desert--there's a good fellow--and we'll soon find
out."

"Isn't that just like a brother? Always sending his long-suffering sister
on his errands."

"Why, you know you are dying with curiosity yourself, to know what's on
that signboard," parried Roy.

"And I suppose you're not," pouted Peggy in mock indignation. "However,
I'll get the field glasses to oblige you--just once."

"As if you won't try to secure the first peek through them!" laughed Roy,
as sunny Peggy tripped off across the lawn to a big shed in the rear of
the Prescott home, where the aeroplanes and their appurtenances were kept.

She soon was back with the field glasses, and, as Roy had prophesied,
raised them to her eyes first. Having adjusted the focus, she scrutinized
the sign carefully. By this time the big board had been raised
horizontally above the doors and was being fixed in position.

Suddenly Peggy gave a little squeal of astonishment and lowered the
magnifiers.

"Well, what is it?" chaffed Roy; "an anarchist bomb factory or an
establishment for raising goats, or something that will "butt in" just as
much on our peace and quiet, or----"

"Roy Prescott," enunciated Peggy, severely shaking one pink-tipped finger
under Roy's freckled nose, "this is not a subject for jesting."

"Never more serious in my life, Sis. If you could have seen your own face
as you peeked through those glasses----"

Peggy stuffed the binocular