"Come back, boys," Mrs. Jones ordered. "If that tramp is a criminal, he might take a shot through the gla.s.s."

Alarmed, the two boys moved back out of range.

Outside, a door slammed as if in the wind. Mrs. Jones, hearing the sound, stiffened.

Then, unmindful of her own warning to the Cubs, she ran to the window.

"Why, that sneak!" she exclaimed. "He's opened the double doors leading down into the bas.e.m.e.nt!"

"Then he'll be up here in another minute!" Babe quavered. "He'll get us!"

"Oh, no, he won't," said Mrs. Jones confidently.

Moving across the kitchen, she locked the inside door which led into the bas.e.m.e.nt. As a double precaution, she then placed the heavy oak table in front of the door.

"That should hold him," she announced. "I have another little idea too!"

The Cubs could not guess what the widow was up to as she darted out of the house, not even bothering to put on a wrap.

In a moment though, they understood. Mrs. Jones slammed shut the double doors entering into the cellar, and bolted them.

As Dan and Brad ran out to help, she told them to bring several pieces of heavy machinery from the shed. These the boys trundled out and placed on top of the double doors.

"That should hold him!" Mrs. Jones declared, well satisfied with her work.

From inside the house, they could hear the tramp pounding on the door.

"He may break it down!" Dan said uneasily.

"He could," the widow admitted. "Dan, run down the road and see if you can find out what's keeping Mr. Hatfield and the state troopers.

Meanwhile, the rest of us will hold the fort. Or to be strictly accurate-the kitchen!"

CHAPTER 19 "I Promise"

Knowing that Mrs. Jones and the Cubs might not be able to hold the tramp a prisoner very long in the barricaded bas.e.m.e.nt, Dan ran as fast as he could down the road.

He had no idea which way Mr. Hatfield had gone. However, it seemed to him that the house most likely to have a telephone, was a large white one a quarter of a mile farther on toward town.

Dan was midway there when he saw a state trooper's car approaching. His heart leaped. Help, he thought, was at hand.

Even before the boy signaled, the car came to a grinding halt a short distance away. Two state troopers were in the front seat, with Mr.

Hatfield sitting between them.

"Get in, Dan," the Cub leader said, as the door swung open. "What happened at the shack?"

Dan tersely told him.

"On to Mrs. Jones' place," one of the state troopers declared, shifting gears. "We'll get the fellow!"

As the car swung into the farmyard a few minutes later, Mrs. Jones met the group at the door.

"I'm glad you got here!" she said in relief. "That tramp has been making a frightful fuss in the cellar. We were afraid he would break down the door."

The troopers decided to accost the man from the outside exit, rather than subjecting the Cubs to possible gunfire.

With weapons drawn, the two officers flung wide the double cellar doors.

"Come out or we'll shoot!" the order was given.

The Cubs thought the tramp might defy the officers. However, in a moment he came out of his dark hole, hands raised.

Officer Peterson snapped a pair of handcuffs over the man's wrists and marched him into the house.

"Your name?" he demanded.

"Carl Blakemore." The tramp blinked owlishly, his gaze roving from one face to another.

"You've been living in a shack near here?"

"I've been sleeping there nights," the man muttered.

"You're under arrest for stealing money from the home of Sam Hatfield.

Anything to say?"

"Not a thing," the tramp muttered. Then he suddenly changed his mind.

"Yes, I have too!" he announced. "I know you'll take me to jail, so I may as well tell you the whole story. Not that you'll believe me!"

"Go ahead," the trooper encouraged.

"All right, I stole the money," the tramp frankly admitted. "The first place I took it from was the Merrimac house."

"Then he was telling the truth when he said he'd lost a strongbox!" Dan exclaimed. "The other claimants were false."

"It was Merrimac's money," the tramp confirmed. "What's more, except for twenty-five dollars I used to live on, every cent of it is still here in the box."

"How did the box get in the coal bin of the church?" Mr. Hatfield questioned.

"I'm coming to that. But first I'd like to tell why I came to Webster City in the first place."

"Tell the story in your own way," Trooper Peterson instructed him. "You can put your hands down now."

"Thanks."

"It's only fair to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in court."