he stopped of his own accord. We both jumped out. The noise came from a field on our right, mostly given over to blueberry bushes, but with a litt
le timber on its farther edge.
“Help! Murder!” It was a high-keyed woman’s voice.
“Tramps,” said Bert, as we hurried on.
said I, for I was sure I heard laughter alternating with the screams. And the laughter had a strangely familiar sound.
On we ran, the screams c
ontinuing, and at last the sounds were located, that is, the screams were. They came from a low growing chestnut. Perched in its branches sat Minerva, her face the image of horror, and below on
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