"Careful, now," whispered Dick, "one bad move might spoil everything."
On tip-toe they crossed. At a point midway in the street they halted a brief instant. From this point they could make out the unmistakable form of Ab. Dexter at the back of the drug store, walking to and fro as if waiting for something.
No word was spoken. Still on tip-toe the boys went on until they stood by one of the doors of the cab.
Dave and Greg made way for Dick to get up close and peer into the vehicle.
Young Prescott gave a start of exultation as he made out a little, wrapped-up human bundle huddled on the back seat. It was little four-year-old Myra. She had collapsed into a heap and was very softly sobbing to herself, wholly unaware of what might be passing outside.
On the further side of the cab, standing on the sidewalk, Dick caught sight of the man whom he presumed to be the driver. The fellow was standing staring fixedly ahead.
"If he had been looking the other way he would have caught us coming down the street," flashed through Prescott's mind.
Then he turned, nodding swiftly, silently, at his companions.
They had found Myra, these Grammar School lads, but in a desperate fight, Dexter and the driver would prove overwhelming odds. The pair of rascals could knock these youngsters senseless and whip up the horses for a dash.
What was to be done?