A Den of Thieves.
Down a by-lane in the outskirts of Timber Town stood a dilapidated wooden cottage. Its windows lacked many panes, its walls were bare of paint, the shingles of its roof were rotten and scanty; it seemed uninhabitable and empty, and yet, as night fell, within it there burned a light. Moreover, there were other signs of life within its crazy walls, for when all without was quiet and dark, the door opened and a bare-headed man emerged.
“Carny!” he called.
A whistle sounded down the lane, and soon a figure advanced from the shadow of a hedge and stood in the light of the open door.
“We’ve only waited near an hour for you,” said the first man. “If you’ve orders to be on time, be on time. D’you expect the whole push to dance attendance on you?”
“Now, Dolphin, draw it mild. That blame pretty girl at The Lucky Digger kept me, an’ wouldn’t let me go, though I told her I had a most important engagement.”
“Petticoats an’ our business don’t go together,” gruffly responded Dolphin. “Best give ’em a wide berth till we’ve finished our work here and got away.”
The two men entered the house, and the door was shut.
At a bare, white-pine table sat two other men, the sour-faced Garstang and the young fellow who answered to the name of Sweet William.
“Come in, come in,” said the latter, “and stop barrackin’ like two old washerwomen. Keep yer breath to discuss the biz.”