A few yards short of his goal, his foot caught on something and Joe measured his length with a force that almost drove the breath from his body. Fortunately the fall had left him in a tangle of bushes, and there he lay a moment and listened with fast-beating heart for a rush of footsteps. But the only sound that came to him was that of low voices from beyond the thin wooden wall a half-dozen feet away, and after a cautious look about him he squirmed forward again. To reach the nearer of the two windows he must make his way across the remains of an abandoned mowing machine, and that task was no slight one if he was not to proclaim his presence to those inside. But he managed it presently and was crouching, his head close to the weathered boards, listening to the voices. There were evidently at least two men in the shed. One spoke harshly yet quite distinctly, the other emitted only unintelligible mutterings. “Kick the burlap over here, Jimmy,” said the first. A deadened metallic sound followed, as though a length of pipe had fallen on a carpeted floor. “There, that’s the last, ain’t it?” There came a creaking as of carriage springs and the mutterings of the second worker. “Yeah, I know,” went on the other, as if in response to a suggestion, “but we’ve got to take a chance now and then, ain’t we? Get it covered up good and there won’t be no trouble. Better change those number plates next thing. Huh?” The mutterings came again and the voice which Joe could understand broke in impatiently on them. “Oh, you give me a pain, Jimmy! We’ve made the trip four times, ain’t we? And we got by all right, didn’t we? Well, then, forget the crepe-hanging! Besides, this is the last lot, I guess. They’re getting het up here. When they begin offering rewards it’s a good time to move on. Huh? ... You and your hunches. You’re always having ’em, Jimmy, and they don’t never come true. Say, now, do they? Where’s those plates? All right, go ahead, and I’ll finish the load off.”