Publisher's Synopsis
"Roy! Roy! where are you?" Peggy Prescott came flying down the red-brick path, a rustling newspaper clutched in her hand. "Here I am, sis, -what's up?" The door of a long, low shed at the farther end of the old-fashioned garden opened as a clattering sound of hammering abruptly ceased. Roy Prescott, a wavy-haired, blue-eyed lad of seventeen, or thereabouts, stood in the portal. He looked very business-like in his khaki trousers, blue shirt and rolled up sleeves. In his hand was a shiny hammer. Peggy, quite regardless of a big, black smudge on her brother's face, threw her arms around his neck in one of her "bear hugs," while Roy, boy-like, wriggled in her clasp as best he could. "Now, just look here," cried Peggy, quite out of breath with her own vehemence. She flourished the paper under his nose and, imitating the traditional voice of a town crier, announced: "Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! Roy Prescott or any of the ambitious aviators-now is your chance! Great news from the front! Third and last call!" "You've got auctioneering, the Supreme Court and war times, mixed up a bit, haven't you?" asked Roy with masculine condescension, but gazing fondly at his vivacious sister nevertheless.
