Voices were growing louder. Some one was coming! It must be Mr. Parsons.
At the top of the ladder, Al fell softly onto the upper floor boards, and he, with his brother, bent attentive, strained ears to catch the low murmur from below.
“He’s from the plant,” a voice called, and Bob recognized the quick, sharp tones of Mr. Parsons. “He was a boy from the plant.”
“You got those books wrapped in record time!” someone else chuckled. Then, as the youths drew their heads back, turtle fashion, to avoid the glare, a match was struck.
“Nobody here—but yonder’s a ladder.”
“Better go up and have a look,” said a third, deeper voice. “We can’t afford to have those kids snooping. I think Barney brought them into the thing. They’re only kids—but they have eyes!”
Bob, with a twist of his neck, looked around in the dim upper room. Its end window, dirty and cobwebby, allowed the moonlight to stream in. The shaft of dull light streamed across, slantwise. Bob, following its path with his eyes, touched Al’s arm. Gently he directed his brother’s gaze toward a corner.
Sacks, used for packing corn or other cereals, were piled up there.
By common consent the two began a slow, cautious movement toward the sacks; but Bob, quick in an emergency, drew the whole pile, very cautiously, partly lifting the lower ones, to a darker place.
Al, close beside him, divined his idea. They could hide under the large cluster of heavy burlap bags.