"Shall we rush them?" suggested the Watermelon with happy anticipation. Alphonse, like the voice of reason, calm, unemotional, blasé, spoke: "There is a cow lane back of the barn. It is wide enough for the cars. It leads into the road farther on. I left the bars down." "You’re a man, Alphonse," said the Watermelon. They glided without further comment through the barnyard into the rocky, tree-shaded cow lane. The general glanced behind. No one was in sight. The lane was narrow and rough, last spring’s mud having hardened into humps and ridges from the passing of many feet. The cars ran slowly of a necessity, and while the engines throbbed, the noise was not loud, and the slight hill on which the house stood deadened the sound and concealed the cars from any one in front. Henrietta leaned toward the Watermelon, who sat on the small seat just in front of her and just behind the general. "On such an occasion as this," she asked, "what did ’father’ used to say?" "Nothing," said the Watermelon. "There were two times when he never said anything, one was when he was asleep and the other was when he was escaping from the police." "Oh," cried Billy, "he was a minister, why should he have had to escape from the police?" "He left the ministry," explained the Watermelon. "What did he say when he left it?" teased Henrietta. "Good-by," said the Watermelon. Then the cars turned into the road and two men stepped from the bushes on either side. They were tall, raw-boned country men, in flapping straw hats and blue jeans. Each carried a shotgun in the crook of his arm with a tender pleasure in the feel of it, each chewed a big piece of tobacco and each was apparently more than enjoying the situation. The Watermelon, leaning forward, with wary eyes, was pleased to see a look of surprise flit across their square-jawed, sun-tanned faces as they saw the second car slowly following the first, and four men instead of one, as the telegram had said "one man in a big red touring car," the make and engine number given. For a moment the general could think of nothing to say. If he had been permitted to sally forth from the front door, he could have explained clearly, emphatically, with all his old-time belief that being himself no one could possibly doubt him or his good intentions. But now, caught thus, acknowledging his guilt by his surreptitious leave-taking, he did not know what to say, where to begin. Bartlett reached for his pocket-book. "What’s the make of your car?" demanded the taller of the two of Bartlett, laying his hand on the fender. [Illustration: "What’s the make of your car?"] Surprised, Bartlett told, thankful that he had not been asked for his name. "Engine number?" demanded the man. Bartlett gave it. "License number?"