Eleven o'clock pealed out from the steeple of the nearest church.

The night was dark. Rain or snow was in the air.

In a shadow across the street hung Tip Scammon. His shabby cap
was pulled down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep into the
pockets of his ragged reefer. Tip's eyes were turned toward the
Ripley home opposite.

"To think o' that feller in a fine, warm, soft bed nights, an'
all the swell stuff to eat at table!" muttered Tip, enviously.
"And then me, out in the cold, wearing a tramp's clothes! Never
sure whether to-morrer has a meal comin' with it! But, anyway,
I can make that Ripley kid dance when I pull the string! He dances
pretty tolerable frequent, too! He's got to do it to-night, an'
he'd better hurry up some!"

Soon after the sound of the striking clock had died away, Tip's
keen eyes saw a figure steal around one side of the house from
the rear.

"Here comes Rip, now. He's on time," thought Tip. "Huh! It's
a pity---fer---him that he wouldn't take a new think an' chase
me. But he's like most pups that hire other folks to do their
tough work---they hain't 't got no nerve o' their own."

Fred came stealthily out of the yard, after looking back at the
house. He went straight up to young Scammon.

"So here ye are, pal," laughed Tip. "Glad ye didn't keep me waitin'.