"I was sleeping full and by, forty knots," answered Ferral, in the same low tone, "when I felt myself grabbed. It was dark as Egypt, and I couldn't see a thing. I shouted to Carl, and we had it touch and go, here in the dark. My eye, but it was a scrimmage! Right in the midst of it the fellows we were fighting melted away. I had just got the glim to going when you stepped in on us."
"Wasn't Sercomb in the fight?"
"Why, no. He must have been down-stairs, sleeping like a log. He only just chirped—you heard him."
"Well, Sercomb came into this room with two other men, through that hole in the wall——"
"Is that right?" demanded Ferral, his face hardening.
"Yes, but don't say a word about it. Wait till we find out what his game is."
"How dit you know all dot, Matt?" queried Carl.
Briefly as he could Matt sketched his recent experiences. The astonishing recital left his two friends gasping.
"The old hunks!" breathed Ferral, scowling. "I can smoke his weather-roll, fast enough. What did I tell you about the soft-sawdering beggar?"
Matt stepped into the hall and listened. Apparently, Sercomb was not in the house. Coming back, he pulled his two friends close together so they could hear him without his speaking above a whisper.