“It’s Dick,” whispered Bob. “Can’t see his figure-head, but I know the cut of his jib, even in the dark.”
“Let’s go at ’im, slick!” whispered Pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce.
“Not yet. We must make quite sure, an’ nab him in the very act.”
As he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. Opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside.
“Now, Pat,” said Bob, somewhat bitterly, “there’s nothin’ for it but the police.”
Pat expressed strong dissent. “The p’leece,” he said, “was useless for real work; they was on’y fit to badger boys an’ old women.”
“But what can we do?” demanded Bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. “You an’ I ain’t fit to bu’st in the door; an’ if we was Dick would be ready for us. If we’re to floor him he must be took by surprise.”
“Let’s go an’ peep,” suggested the smaller warrior.
“Come on, then,” growled the big one.
The sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid’s bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane.