"Skylight?" echoed Denver. "Didn't know there was one." "There has to be," said Terry, with surety. "Can you force a door in one of those houses so we can get to the second story of one of 'em and drop to the roof?"
"Force nothing," whispered Denver. "They don't know what locks on doors mean around here."
And he was right.
They circled in a broad detour and slipped onto the back porch of the blue house; the guard at the rear of the bank was whistling softly as he walked.
"Instead of watchdogs they keep doors with rusty hinges," said Denver as he turned the knob, and the door gave an inch inward. "And I dunno which is worst. But watch this, bo!"
And he began to push the door slowly inward. There was never a slackening or an increase in the speed with which his hand travelled. It took him a full five minutes to open the door a foot and a half. They slipped inside, but Denver called Terry back as the latter began to feel his way across the kitchen.
"Wait till I close this door."
"But why?" whispered Terry.
"Might make a draught—might wake up one of these birds. And there you are. That's the one rule of politeness for a burglar, Terry. Close the doors after you!"
And the door was closed with fully as much caution and slowness as had been used when it was opened. Then Denver took the lead again. He went across the kitchen as though he could see in the dark, and then among the tangle of chairs in the dining room beyond. Terry followed in his wake, taking care to step, as nearly as possible, in the same places. But for all that, Denver continually turned in an agony of anger and whispered curses at the noisy clumsiness of his companion—yet to Terry it seemed as though both of them were not making a sound.