"It's what we've been waiting for, Chub!" said Matt huskily.
[CHAPTER XII.]
THE OLD HOPEWELL TUNNEL.
"Well, great centipedes!" gasped Chub, staring. "That's a nice way to hand a fellow a letter. Why didn't he get a cannon an' shoot it in! Suppose one of us had been in front of that window when the mail-wagon came through?"
Matt, his fingers none too steady, had been busy taking off the twine and getting at the folded paper. The paper was soaked through, and called for great care in opening it out. When it was finally straightened and laid on the table, this penciled message met the eager eyes of the boys:
"ole hoaPwel tunNNel 8 tirty muNdy morning Keap it quite"
"More news from our old friend that wrote the first note," said Chub. "He hasn't improved any in his spelling, and he handles his capitals like a Hottentot. Give us a free translation, Matt."
"It's plain enough," said Matt. "'Be at the old Hopewell tunnel at eight-thirty Monday morning. Keep it quiet.' Do you know anything about the old Hopewell tunnel, Chub?"
"Why, yes. It's a played-out mine. We passed it coming into town."