CHAPTER XI.
THE THIRD PARTY'S AMAZEMENT 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.