But neither Mr. Daddles nor Ed heard him at all. The latter merely said "Hurry up!" and then disappeared toward the kitchen. It struck me that Jimmy was right, and although I was anxious to get out of the house as quick as possible, it did not seem likely that anything would wake up those policemen for hours to come. So we put the dishes back into the butler's pantry, set back the chairs, and fixed the room, as well as we could, in the way that we had found it. Just as I put out the gas Jimmy slipped the pound-cake into his pocket. "We might as well have this," he said. Then we hurried through the kitchen, and into the pantry. The others had left the window open. Jimmy went through it first, and I followed. As I stepped out into the moonlight I felt someone grab my arm. I looked up, expecting to see Mr. Daddles. But it was not he. Instead, I looked into the face of a big man, with a long beard. He had a pitchfork in his other hand. Two other men had Mr. Daddles by the arms, and some others were holding Ed and Jimmy. There seemed to be quite a big crowd of people on that veranda. CHAPTER VI WE ARE OFFERED LODGINGS The man with the pitchfork bent down and squinted in at the window, still holding me tight by the arm. "Any more on ye comin' out?" he inquired. "No, there aren't any more of us," said Mr. Daddles, "you've got the whole gang now." "Better wait a second, Eb," said one of the men who was holding Mr. Daddles. He was a fat man, with ears that stuck out the way an elephant's do, when he waves them. "Better wait a second,--yer can't tell." "You'll waste your time," said Mr. Daddles, "there's no one left in there but the policemen,--and you can't wake them up from here." "P'licemen?" queried the fat man. "Whatcher talkin' about?" asked the man with the pitchfork. "I'm talking about the two policemen who are getting their eight hours in the library," Mr. Daddles replied, "Poor things! I hope we didn't disturb them." "Don't yer believe him, Eb," said another man, "it's some gum game." "Look here," I said, "this is all a mistake. We're not burglars. This house--" "Yes, we know all about that," said a man, "we've heard this feller tell all about his Uncle Alfred Peabody's house. It's a fust-rate story,--only Uncle Alfred's is next door. This is T. Parker Littlefield's, an' you know it, too." "I'm afraid we did strike the wrong house, Sam," said Mr. Daddles, "you see--" "You betcher struck the wrong house,--you're right there, fast enough," said a little man, who was hopping up and down in his excitement. He was the only one of them who was not holding one of us. He had short, paint-brush whiskers, and I remembered him as the man in the shanty,--the one whom Mr. Daddles called "black- hearted Gregory the Gauger." "You ought to be ashamed of yerself," said he, "leadin' boys into crime!" "Do you mean me?" asked Mr. Daddles.