Below us the lock tender was pottering from room to room, talking to the black and white cat and making certain that the doors had all been locked. Finally he went into his bedroom. He wasn’t going to undress, he told the cat, for he was of the belief that “them blasted b’ys,” as he called us, would be back after the boat.
Having got into bed, he happened to remember that he hadn’t wound the clock, so up he got again, pottering into the sitting room. The clock properly wound, he returned to his bed, only to remember, after a brief interval, that he had neglected to put a rug over the furnace register, to prevent the cat from doing any thimble dropping in the course of the night.
Finally a deep silence settled throughout the house. Ten-twenty-thirty minutes passed. There was not the slightest sound from the watcher at the stovepipe hole, though, of course, in the now darkened house, the man was using his ears and [[175]]not his eyes. He was listening, I knew, for possible sounds from the lower bedroom that would tell him that the bed’s occupant had finally dropped asleep.
I was sort of nodding myself. But the pressure of Scoop’s hand on my arm put me wide awake again.
“Come on, Jerry. Now’s our chance.”
My mind held a horrified picture of the crouching killer at the stovepipe hole.
“You’re crazy,” I gasped, in a panic of fear in the thought of leaving our hiding place.
“It’s now or never. He’s likely to wake up any moment.”
“Is he asleep?” I breathed, in surprise.
“Sure thing. I can tell by his deep breathing.… Come on.”