John pulled his chum's arm impatiently and pointed to the vacant house just three lots south of Silvey's home.
"Look," he whispered, suddenly cautious. "Some one's forgotten to close the front door tight. We can lock it from the inside and go up to the attic. Nobody can get in to chase us, and we won't do a thing with our pea shooters, oh, no!"
"Maybe the folks haven't left. You can't tell."
"We can run, then. 'Sides, they won't do anything."
They crossed the street and tiptoed up the dusty, rain-spotted veranda steps. John peered into the bleak, dirty parlor and reported the coast clear. Nevertheless, they hesitated on the very threshold.
"You go first," said Sid to Silvey.
"All right," Silvey nodded apathetically. He peered in at the window. "You don't think there's anyone inside, do you, fellows?"
The trio listened intently. "Might be someone upstairs," suggested Sid. "Tramps or something."
"Shucks," broke in John impatiently. "You're all 'fraid cats, that's what you are."
"Go on in, yourself," Bill retorted quickly.