"It isn't to be a barn; that's one thing certain. Who ever saw a barn with
skylights on it?"
Peggy Prescott, in a pretty, fluffy morning dress of pale green, which set
off her blonde beauty to perfection, laid down her racket, and, leaving
the tennis-court, joined her brother Roy at the picket fence. The lad,
bronzed and toughened by his trip to the Nevada desert, was leaning upon
the paling, gazing down the dusty road.
About a quarter of a mile away was the object of his contemplation--a big,
new structure, painted a staring red. It had no windows, but in front
were great sliding 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.
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