"Why she _eats_ the road! Dad said I
couldn't get it out of her. I'll tell the world. Whew!"
Robin sat forward, suddenly alert.
"Are those the Mills?"
"Yep."
They were not so very unlike the Forsyth Mills--brick walls, dust, dirt,
smoke, towering chimneys, and noise, noise. But beyond them and the
river were rows of neat little white cottages, each with a yard, already
green.
"Best mills in New England. But Dad's prouder of his model village--as
Mother calls those cottages over there--than of his profit sheet. And
look at the school--Dad wanted a school good enough for his own son and
daughter, but Mother wouldn't let us go. I wish she had--I'll bet
there's enough good batting material right in this town to whip every
nine in this part of the country. There's Dad's library, too--"
But Robin did not heed the direction of his nod. She had suddenly seen
something that made her heart leap into her throat; Adam Kraus walking
into the office building carrying the square box with the leather
handles, which she knew contained Dale's model. He was taking it to Mr.
Granger.
A panic gripped Robin. She must do something to save that model for the
Forsyth Mills--she did not know just what, but _something_--
"Stop, oh, stop.
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