"
"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.
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