"Let's do some scouting," said Art.
They put on their shoes quietly, without waking any of the others. Art tried to see his watch, but couldn't. "Never mind," he whispered, and the two boys crawled softly out of camp. It was easy to get across the brook, because the brook itself made so much babbling over its stones that the sound of footsteps could not be heard. Once across, they were close to the road, in some bushes about three feet lower than the road level. They could see little, in the starlight, but they could make out the shadowy form of a motor, and two men sitting in it. The head lights and the red tail light were all shut off!
"That's funny," Art whispered. "Gee, it's against the law, too."
The boys listened. The men were talking in low tones. Their voices were rough, and they swore about every second word.
"We'll start in fifteen minutes," one of them was saying. "Those swells 'round the Profile House hit the hay late. Won't do to get there too soon. It's almost the last house down this way—lucky for us. We can turn the car at the wide place in the road where guys stop to see the Stone Face, and be all ready for a quick getaway."
"How do you know they ain't got a strong arm guy guardin' the sparkle?" asked the other man.
"They ain't, I tell yer," said the first. "Ain't me
