The hotel-keeper called us at six o’clock. There wasn’t any need for a second call, and we hurried down and had some eggs and salt pork and potatoes and coffee and bread and butter and canned peaches. Just a light breakfast. After we got out in the street we bought some bananas and ate three apiece. After that we felt all right.

“To-day’s the l-l-last of it,” says Mark.

“Somebody’ll win sure before night,” I says.

“It’ll be us,” he says.

That’s what a good breakfast will do for a fellow. It gives him confidence.

We started off for the hotel where Jiggins & Co. were and sat down on the porch where we could look into the office and see them the minnit they came down-stairs. We waited and waited. After a while the clock struck seven.

“They’re due now,” I says.

But they didn’t come. At half past seven I began to get fidgety and so did Mark.

“Don’t seem l-l-like they’d oversleep to-day,” says he.

“It don’t,” says I.

“Let’s investigate,” says he.

We marched in to the man behind the counter and asked for Mr. Jiggins.

“Fat man?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“He and his friend got up early,” says the man. “They left a call for seven, but they were down here at six. Had breakfast and went out.”

Now, that was a nice thing to start the day with, wasn’t it? We thought we had the advantage of them. It was all plain as pie to us how we could stick to their heels till they found Uncle Hieronymous and then bust in on them and knock their scheme a-kiting. Now the shoe was pinching the other foot, and it pinched hard.

We turned away without so much as saying thank you to the man. Somehow there didn’t seem to be much to thank him for. It would have been too much like saying much obliged to a cow that hooked you. Out on the porch we flopped down in a couple of chairs and looked at each other.

“Looks like we was done for,” I says.

Mark Tidd never will admit he’s beaten. It made him mad to hear me say so.

“I’ll sh-sh-show you if we’re b-b-beat,” he says, stuttering so bad he almost choked. “We hain’t beat, and we hain’t goin’ to be b-b-beat.”

“All right,” says I, “that suits me fine. How do we manage it?”

“Sittin’ here won’t do it,” says he, and got onto his feet. “Come on.”

There wasn’t a thing to do but try to find uncle ourselves. If we got to him before Jiggins & Co. all right. If they found him first the bacon was burned, and there we were. Nice, wasn’t it? It made me sick to think of all the work we’d done and all the trouble we’d taken, and then to have the whole thing depend on luck at the end. We were discouraged, but we didn’t let up. We said we’d keep up the battle till the cows came home, and we did.

I never saw a man so hard to find as Uncle Hieronymous was. We met men who had seen him, and we went into places where he’d been, but nobody knew where he’d gone or if he’d be back. This kept up till after ten o’clock.

“If he’s h-h-hard for us to find,” says Mark, “he must be hard for them to f-f-find.”

There wasn’t a great deal of comfort in that, but we took all we could get.

I saw by a jewelry-store clock it was a quarter to eleven, and just then a man spoke to Mark Tidd.

“Be you the kid that was askin’ after Hieronymous Bell last night?”

“Yes,” says Mark.

“I seen him,” says the man; and then I recognized his voice. He was the lumberman that was talking with Jiggins & Co. the night before. “I seen him,” says he, “with them two fellers, the fat one and the lean one. And there was another feller, too. Feller by the name of Siggins, lawyer. Not one of those here big lawyers that git to be judges, but a leetle one that goes slinkin’ around corners. I calc’late he hain’t no fit companion for Hieronymous.”

“Where’d they g-g-go?” Mark asked, quick.

“Looked like they was headin’ for Siggins’s office.”

“Where’s that?”

The lumberman pointed to a yellow-brick building about a block back. “There,” says he. “Up the stairs in a back room.”

“M-much obliged,” says Mark; and off we went hot-foot.

It was a case of hurry now, and hurry hard. Uncle Hieronymous was in the hands of the enemy, and his mine would be a goner if we didn’t get our heavy artillery to work in a jiffy. But we had a chance, and a good one.

We ran. I beat Mark to the top of the stairs, but he was puffing right at my heels. How he did puff! The stairs came up in a hallway that ran straight ahead to the back of the building and an outside door. Another hall ran crossways from one end of the building to the other.

“Now, where’s Siggins’s o-o-office?” says Mark.

He got an answer, too. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Collins stepped out of the door of the last office at the back of the building, the one on the left side of the hall. He saw us that very instant, and the way he came for us would have made a Comanche Indian proud. He swooped. I hadn’t any idea he could move so fast. Before we could open our mouths he had us by the collars and was hustling us down-stairs. In less than a second we were out on the sidewalk.

“Business before pleasure,” says Collins, with a twinkle in his eye. “I couldn’t stop to say howdy-do till we were down here.”

“You needn’t stop to say it now,” I says, mad all over.

“Now, Binney,” says he, “no hard feelings. We couldn’t have you mousing around up there—now, could we? If you were in my place wouldn’t you do just what I did?”

I suppose I would, but that didn’t have anything to do with it, that I could see.

“You might as well give it up,” says Collins. “You’ve made a bully try, and you had us scared. Two boys couldn’t have done better. You’re all right.”

We weren’t looking for compliments, but, just the same, I couldn’t help feeling Collins was a pretty good sort of a fellow. He was doing wrong, but he didn’t realize it. I don’t believe it’s as bad to do wrong when you don’t know you’re doing wrong as it is to do wrong on purpose. But I may be mistaken.

“I’m going to stand half-way up the stairs,” says Collins, “an’ I’m not going to let you past. No good to try. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but you’d better own up you’re beaten. Don’t feel bad about it. You put up a dandy fight.”

Mark Tidd was pinching his cheek and squinting his eyes. Somehow that made me feel a little lighter inside. I’d been feeling like I’d swallowed a ton of lead by mistake.

“Well,” says Mark, “we m-m-might as well git away from here.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Collins. “But, all the same, I’ll be standing right on those stairs, so don’t try any monkey-shines.”

“Come on, Binney,” says Mark, as down-hearted as could be. We walked to the corner and turned. “Now r-r-run,” says Mark. He started off helter-skelter, and I stuck right by him. At the back corner of the building he stopped. “Over the f-f-fence,” he panted.

We were over in a jiffy, and then over the next fence, and that brought us into the back yard of the yellow-brick building.

I guess Mark had been expecting to go up the back stairs and get in that way, but the stairs were all built in and there was a padlock on the door. Mark stood looking at it like it had reached out and slapped him, then he looked up at the second story as if he thought maybe he’d try to jump.

“Um!” says he. “Um!” Then he began looking all around. At last he banged his right fist against his other hand and pointed to a low barn on the back of the lot that faced the next street. “Can we get up th-th-there?” he asked.

“If it’ll do any good,” says I.

“It may,” says he.

We went back to the fence and climbed to the top of it. Right here came the first piece of luck we’d had for a long time: there was a painter’s ladder in that yard lying against the barn.

In a minnit we had it up against the side and were scrambling to the roof. In two minnits we were perched on the ridge-pole, looking across at the window of the office where Uncle Hieronymous was shut in with Jiggins and the lawyer.

“What good is this?” I says.

“Attract his attention,” says Mark.

“How?”

“Yell,” says he.

I did. “Uncle Hieronymous!” I hollered, as loud as I could. “Uncle Hieronymous!”

If the window across had been open it might have been all right, but, as it was, nothing happened at all. I tried again. It didn’t do a bit of good.

“Well,” says I, feeling like I could beller, “we’re beat.”

It did seem hard to come out at the little end of it when we were so close. It looked like it ought to be so easy to warn Uncle Hieronymous when he was only a hundred feet or so away. But it wasn’t easy. It looked like it was impossible.

“Got to f-f-find some other way,” says Mark.

“There isn’t any,” says I.

“Must be,” says he. “Got to be. L-lemme think.”

He thought and thought, and pinched his cheek and squinted his eyes, but it didn’t seem like he was doing any good. After a while he sighed—a regular whopper of a sigh.

“We hain’t doin’ any good here,” he says. “Have to t-try somewheres else.”

“Hain’t got time,” says I.

“Got half an hour, maybe. There’ll be dickerin’. Your uncle won’t make no deal till he’s argued and fussed around c-consid’able. He’s one of them kind. They hain’t been there long, and Uncle Hieronymous never’ll sell a farm in less’n an hour.”

I wasn’t so sure of that, and it didn’t look like much to depend on, but Mark don’t often go wrong when he’s figgerin’ out what folks’ll do. He’s the greatest fellow for knowing how anybody’ll act that you ever saw.

“Come on,” says he, beginning to scramble down off the shed.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Anywheres but here,” says he. “It makes me mad to see them so close and not be able to d-d-do anything.”

So down we slid into the yard again.