“Oh! I hope, Tom, he doesn’t just step over it, and never bother to pick it up.”
“We’ve got to take our chance of that happening,” he was told; “but we know how nearly every boy would act. Besides, scraps of paper have begun to seem worth something in Dock’s eyes lately. The chances are three to one he’ll get it.”
“Well, I’ll meet you at just seven o’clock to-night at the old smithy, and we’ll lay the trap when we hear his whistle up the road. Dock always whistles when he’s out after dark. I think it must help him keep his courage up.”
The church bells had just started to ring seven when the two boys came close to the old blacksmith shop that had been deserted when Mr. Siebert moved to a better location.
They had chosen this spot because it was rather lonely, and there did not seem to be very much chance of their little game being interrupted by any other pedestrian coming along just at the critical time.
On one side of the road lay the bushes, in the midst of which the boys expected to hide; on the other could be seen the river.
All was quiet around them as the minutes passed away.
“There, that’s his whistle, Tom!” whispered Carl, suddenly.
Thereupon the other scout crept swiftly out upon the road, and placed the folded paper where it could hardly help being seen by any one with ordinary eyesight. He had just returned to the bushes when a figure came hurrying around the bend, whistling vigorously as some boys are in the habit of doing. Carl’s heart seemed almost to stop beating when he saw Dock suddenly halt and bend over.