“I guess we’ll find the brooks high,” Herman Boyd put in.
“Bankful and brimmin’ over,” quoth Lon. “Maybe you fellows will have to get out and wade before we get back.”
“Well, we’ll risk it,” cried Herman cheerfully.
They turned a corner, and drew up before the Jones house. Nobody was in sight about the premises.
Sam raised a lusty hail. “Oh, you Step! Hi there! Hurry up!”
There was no response. Sam called again, still more loudly. The Trojan had the knack of putting his knuckles to his mouth and emitting a peculiarly shrill and penetrating whistle. He blew it now, quite without result. Then the crowd shouted in chorus.
The kitchen door opened. A woman looked out. She waved a hand toward the club-house, which, as has been explained, stood in a corner of the yard.
“What the mischief——” Sam began, but cut short his speech, and sprang to the ground. Orkney followed him. One or two of the others were about to imitate the example, but Sam waved them back.
“No; two of us are enough,” he said. “I can’t guess what’s happened, but something has. Orkney and I’ll find out. Come along, Tom!”
They hurried up the path to the club-house. The door was ajar. Sam, by this time puzzled and a bit alarmed, pushed it open, and looked in, Orkney peering over his shoulder.