Tom
entered his room, said good-night to Joe, then closed the door and
commenced to investigate. It was a narrow room with one window looking out
upon the yard. He opened the window and looked down. In the dim light which
came from the room in which they had been sitting downstairs he could see a
wagon drawn up beside the house; there was a stack of farm tools against
the wagon, and the ground was strewn with objects he could not make out.
Just a mixture of things which had been thrown there for want of a better
place, he thought. The window of the next room was within a foot of his own
window. He leaned over and peered in, but he could see nothing. Then he put
his ear against the thin wall and listened. He could hear no sound but the
mumble of voices from the room downstairs; those he could hear distinctly.
He glanced about the floor, wondering if the sound was coming up through a
crack. A patch of tin caught his eye and he carried the candle over to
examine it. It was about a foot square, covering a stove-pipe hole, and was
held in place by four tacks. He pulled out his knife, loosened one tack and
bent the corner up. Then he put his ear down and listened.
Alf had just returned to the room.
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