"Ginger! but you're nerve and action," commented the admiring Bob.
"And good to your friends," put in Darry.
They passed the pickle factory. It stood on the edge of the town, and
the residence of the senior partner of Martin & Company, whose name had
been mentioned in the telegram, was nearly half a mile further away.
"Eleven thirty-five," announced Bart, a trifle anxiously. "It does not
give us much time. I hope there's no slip anywhere."
At just fifteen minutes of midnight the strange trio passed up the
graveled walk leading to the Martin mansion. The front door had a
ponderous old-fashioned knocker, and Bart plied it without ceremony.
He began to grow nervous as three minutes passed by, and not the least
attention was paid to his summons.
Suddenly an upper window was thrust up, and a man's head came into view.
"Who's there?" demanded a gruff, impatient voice.
"Is this Mr. Martin, Mr. A.B. Martin?" inquired Bart.
"Yes, it is--what do you want?"
"I have an express package for you," explained Bart.
"Oh, you have?" snapped Mr. Martin. "What the mischief do you mean
waking a man up at midnight on a thing like that! Deliver it at the
factory in the morning.
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