They made a wide circuit and approached the house from the rear, worming
their way through the Indian grass toward the back door. Dave crept
forward and tried the door. It was locked. The window was latched and the
blind lowered. He drew back and rejoined his companion.

"No chance there," he whispered.

"How about the roof?" asked Hart.

It was an eight-roomed house. From the roof two dormers jutted. No light
issued from either of them.

Dave's eyes lit.

"What's the matter with takin' a whirl at it?" his partner continued.
"You're tophand with a rope."

"Suits me fine."

The young puncher arranged the coils carefully and whirled the loop
around his head to get the feel of the throw. It would not do to miss the
first cast and let the rope fall dragging down the roof. Some one might
hear and come out to investigate.

The rope snaked forward and up, settled gracefully over the chimney, and
tightened round it close to the shingles.

"Good enough. Now me for the climb," murmured Hart.