“How are you going to get in?” asked Roger, as they came to a halt before the main door.
Dave tried the door, to find it locked. “Let us walk around. The thieves may be in hiding somewhere,” he suggested.
They made the circuit of the works, once falling into a hole filled with snow. Nothing unusual met their eyes, and each gazed questioningly at the other.
“It can’t be a joke, can it?” suggested Roger. “Nat Poole might——”
“No, I’m sure it was no joke,” broke in our hero. “Wait, I’ll try that little side-door. I think that is the one the watchman generally uses.”
He ran to the door in question and pushed upon it. It gave way, and with caution he entered the building. All was so dark he could see absolutely nothing.
“I guess we’ll have to make a light,” he said, as his chum followed him. “Wait till I see if I have some matches.”
“Here are some,” answered Roger. “Wait, I’ll strike a light. You keep hold of that gun—and be ready to use it, if you have to!”
The senator’s son struck one of the matches and held it aloft. By its faint rays the boys were able to see some distance into the workshop into which the doorway opened. Only machines and work-benches met their gaze. On a nail hung a lantern.
“We’ll light this,” said Dave, taking the lantern down. “You can carry it, and I’ll keep the gun handy.”