Chub hopped out of bed and took a squint through the window. The sun was up, the sky was clear, and everything was glistening with the wet.
"Seven-thirty," announced Matt, as they finished dressing; "that gives us half an hour for breakfast and plenty of time to get to the old Hopewell tunnel. Hope-well! That certainly sounds good to me."
At sharp eight they were on the road, picking their way around street puddles in the direction of the railroad-station. They were to cross the track, close to the station, and reach out along the good road, smooth as macadam, for two miles, after which there was to be a little harder going across country.
The train from Phœnix was just pulling out for the north when they reached the tracks. The station-agent was out on the platform.
"How's Number Twelve?" yelled Chub.
"Thirty minutes to the bad," answered the agent. "She'll be along at nine-thirty."
"We're fools for luck, and no mistake, Matt," said Chub.
"That's the way with luck," returned Matt. "When it makes a turn it comes your way in a bunch."
The road along the railroad-track had perfect drainage, and it was already so nearly dry that the tires took firm hold without skidding. Even after the boys left the road and took a little-used trail across country, they were not bothered to any appreciable extent. The road was sandy, and had soaked up the moisture like a sponge.
It was a quarter past eight by Matt's watch when they came opposite a tunnel opening in the hillside. There was a platform of rocks at the mouth of the tunnel where the useless matter from the bore had been dropped.