“Suppose we cut across this field. It will be a little nearer.”
“All right.”
There was a pathway through a pasture-lot, comprising some ten acres, poor land, covered with puny bushes, and a few gnarled trees, producing cider-apples. It belonged to an old bachelor farmer, who lived in solitary fashion, doing his own cooking, and in general taking care of himself. He was reputed to have money concealed about his premises, which was quite probable, as he spent little, and was known to have received, four years before, a considerable legacy from the estate of a brother who had died, a successful merchant in the city of New York.
The boys had to pass by the small and weather-stained house where he lived, as the path ran very near it.
When within a few rods of the house, the boys were startled by a sharp cry of terror, which appeared to proceed from inside the house.
Both simultaneously stood still.
“What’s that!” exclaimed both in concert.
“Somebody must be trying to rob Mr. Lovett,” suggested Frank.
“Can’t we do something!” said Phil quickly.
“We can try.”