Don put his hand on his friend’s arm. “Not so loud,” he whispered. “And, Jud, I know you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone—not even to your mother.”
“Of course not.”
Don glanced round cautiously. The old wharf apparently was quite deserted except for themselves. The sun was shining brightly on the water; the wind, blowing across the rough planks, was rattling the loose shingles on a small fisherman’s shack beside the big warehouse.
“Now for some reason,” Don continued, “Snell, the Redcoat, broke into our cellar yesterday, and that’s why I’m telling you this; I’m afraid he knows what’s down there, and I want you to help me if you can.”
Jud’s eyes snapped as he listened to his comrade’s story of how Snell had broken the lock on the cellar door.
As a matter of fact Snell had not known of what was in the cellar; it was curiosity more than anything else that had prompted him to break the lock. But it would not be long before he knew just what was hidden away beneath the little house in Pudding Lane, for before Don had finished his story the figure that had been listening so intently at the corner of the warehouse drew back and walked quickly in the direction of Beech Street. He had not gone far, however, before he turned on his heel and strode carelessly toward the wharf.
A few minutes later the boys spied Tom Bullard walking toward them; his hands were in his pockets, and he seemed wrapped in thought. “Oh!” he exclaimed as if catching sight of them for the first time. “Didn’t expect to find anybody here.”
“Huh,” said Jud and turned his back.
Tom walked to the edge of the dock and, smiling to himself, stood for some time, looking at the sparkling waters. Then he turned and strode back toward Beech Street.
Don glanced at his companion. “It’s lucky he didn’t hear anything,” he said.