“Are any of those little ones up?” asked Mother Bunker.  “Could they have gotten out of their beds to beat a drum?”

“I didn’t know they had a drum with them,” said Daddy Bunker.

“They didn’t bring any from home,” returned his wife.

“There is an old drum up in the attic,” said Grandpa Ford.  “It used to belong to Mr. Ripley, I think.  Could Russ or Laddie have gone up there and be beating that?”

“The noise has stopped now,” remarked Grandma Ford.  “Let’s go up and see which of the six little Bunkers did it,” and she smiled at Mrs. Bunker.

It took only a glance into the different rooms to show that all six of the little Bunkers were in bed.  Margy and Mun Bun had not been awakened by the drumming or the talk, but the other four were now waiting with wide-open eyes to learn what had happened.

“There it goes again!” exclaimed Daddy Bunker.

Surely enough the rub-a-dub-dubbing sounded again, this time more loudly than before, because the grown folks were nearer the attic.

“We must see what it is,” said Grandpa Ford.

“We surely must,” at once agreed Daddy Bunker.

As he and Grandpa Ford started up the stairs to the attic the drumming noise stopped, and all was quiet when the two men went into the attic.  It was not dark, as Daddy Bunker took with him his electric flashlight, which he flashed into the different corners.

“Where is that drum you spoke of, Father?” he asked of Grandpa Ford.

“I don’t see it now,” was the answer.  “It used to hang up on one of the rafters.  But maybe the children took it down.”

Daddy Bunker flashed his light to and fro.

“Here it is!” he cried, and he pointed to the drum standing up at one side of the big chimney, which was in the center of the attic.  “The children did have it down, playing with it.

“But I don’t see what would make it rattle,” went on Daddy Bunker.  “Unless,” he added, “a rat is flapping its tail against the drum.”

The noise had stopped again, but, all of a sudden, as Grandpa Ford and Daddy Bunker stood looking at the drum, the rattle and rub-a-dub-dub broke out again, more loudly than before.  The drum seemed to shake and tremble, so hard was it beaten.

“Who is doing it?” cried Grandpa Ford.

Daddy Bunker quickly stepped over where he could see the other side of the drum, which was in the dark.  He leaned over, holding his flashlight close, and then he suddenly lifted into view a large, battered alarm clock, without a bell.

“This was beating the drum,” he said.

“That?” cried Grandpa Ford.  “How could that old alarm clock make it sound as if soldiers were coming?”

“Very easily,” answered Daddy Bunker.  “See, the bell is off the clock, and the hammer, or striker, sticks out.  This is shaped like a little ball, and it stood close against the head of the drum.