"There—it's safe enough now. We can take turns carrying it." The girls hurriedly donned their outer wraps. Then, without one backward glance, they tiptoed down the narrow stair. But, to their amazement, the panel at the foot of the stair would not budge. Vainly they shoved, and pressed their shoulders against the solid oak. Breathless, Gyp sat down on the Bible.
"What'll we do?"
"We'll have to shout and bring someone—'cause we can't open the other door."
"Then Old Crow will know our secret," wailed Gyp.
"But we don't want to stay here all night!"
Gyp gave one swift, backward glance up the secret stairway to the haunted tower room.
"No—no! Well, let's shout together."
They shouted and shouted, with all the strength of their young lungs. But Old Crow, who really was Mr. Albert Crowe, for many years janitor of Lincoln School, had gone, ten minutes earlier, in his Sunday best, to attend the annual banquet of the Janitors' Association and his assistant had made his last rounds of the School, so that the shouts of the girls echoed and re-echoed vainly through the deserted halls of Highacres.
Jerry leaned, exhausted, against the wall.
"I don't believe it's a bit of use—not a soul can hear us."