Again came that crackling noise.
“What are they doing?” whispered Andy.
“Breaking in by ripping off a board,” came the answer, accompanied by a warning pressure on the arm.
“Then I don’t believe it’s Puss and Sandy!” said the other, positively.
Frank did not attempt to convince him otherwise, for truth to tell his mind had been made up on that same score several minutes before. Those who were going to all this trouble to effect an entrance to the hangar, must have some more important reason urging them on than a mere desire to do mischief.
What had they better do? Frank could not decide on the spur of the moment. Afterwards he realized that their best course would have been to set up a great shouting, and make all the noise they could, which would have undoubtedly frightened off the marauders, who shunned publicity above all things.
And before Frank could collect his thoughts enough to decide upon any course, he knew that the board had yielded to the efforts of those who wielded the object that was being used as a crowbar.
Then he could hear some party crawling in through the opening. Andy too understood. He was quivering at a tremendous rate, so that Frank actually feared lest he might set the bench to rattling, and betray their hiding-place. So he kept nudging him, in the hope of bolstering up his courage.
Whoever it was creeping along over the littered floor of the shed, he kept advancing. Presently they heard him mutter to himself. Then there came a scratching sound that told of a match being struck.
A faint light sprang up. The two lads, crouching there under the work bench, and clad only in their pajamas, saw the figure of a man kneeling not twelve feet away from them.