"From—Dunn & Son?"
"I guess that's right," said Bart. "Will you come down and take it?"
Martin did not reply. He disappeared from the window, but left it open. Bart heard him muttering to himself.
"Supposing he doesn't come down?" questioned Bob, in a whisper.
"I think he will," said Bart. "Eleven forty-eight. Mr. Martin," he called out loudly, "I can't wait here all night."
"Shut up!" retorted an angry voice—"I'm hurrying all I can."
"He isn't!" spoke Darry, in a low tone to Bart. "He's on to the business, and playing for time."
"And he's beat us!" breathed Bob—"hear there! twelve o'clock. Your delivery is no good, Bart! It's just struck a new day!"
"S—sh!" warned Bart, as a clock inside the house rang out twelve silvery strokes. "The clock is wrong. We've got five minutes and a half yet."
In about two minutes a light flashed in the hall, the front door was unlocked, and Martin appeared, half-dressed. Bart relievedly put up his watch. It was just three minutes of twelve.