They had no difficulty in identifying the latter. Hupft, McCarney, Lemblow and Iredell were seated around a table, engaged in an excited conversation.
There was practically no other furniture in the room than the table and chairs. It was evident that none of the gang lived there, but that they had picked out an abandoned house where they could meet in security and talk with freedom.
There was no attempt to lower their voices, and the unseen listeners had no difficulty in hearing every word that was said.
“So we’ve made another flivver,” growled McCarney, pounding the table angrily with his fist.
“Seems so,” said Iredell, moodily. “They turned up at the game this afternoon just as though nothing had happened. Barclay had some scratches on his hand, but Matson was unhurt. At least he didn’t show any signs of injury.”
“I’m beginning to think we can’t down that fellow,” muttered Hupft. “No matter what we do, he comes up smiling.”
“Nonsense!” snarled Lemblow. “He’s had luck, that’s all. The pitcher that goes to the well too often is broken at last. There’s luck in odd numbers, and the third time we’ll get him.”
Joe felt in his pocket and took out an object that was roughly oblong in shape. He gripped it tightly in his hand and waited.
Jim, who had noted the action, reached out and touched his friend’s arm.