“Two dollars apiece for half an hour’s work,” said Bart, and then told his companions the details of the special mission in which he required their services.

“Ginger! but you’re nerve and action,” commented the admiring Bob.

“And good to your friends,” put in Darry.

They passed the pickle factory.  It stood on the edge of the town, and the residence of the senior partner of Martin & Company, whose name had been mentioned in the telegram, was nearly half a mile further away.

“Eleven thirty-five,” announced Bart, a trifle anxiously.  “It does not give us much time.  I hope there’s no slip anywhere.”

At just fifteen minutes of midnight the strange trio passed up the graveled walk leading to the Martin mansion.  The front door had a ponderous old-fashioned knocker, and Bart plied it without ceremony.

He began to grow nervous as three minutes passed by, and not the least attention was paid to his summons.

Suddenly an upper window was thrust up, and a man’s head came into view.

“Who’s there?” demanded a gruff, impatient voice.

“Is this Mr. Martin, Mr. A.B.  Martin?” inquired Bart.

“Yes, it is—­what do you want?”

“I have an express package for you,” explained Bart.

“Oh, you have?” snapped Mr. Martin.  “What the mischief do you mean waking a man up at midnight on a thing like that!  Deliver it at the factory in the morning.”

The speaker, muttering direfully under his breath, was about to slam down the window.

“Wait one moment, Mr. Martin,” called up Bart sharply.  “This is a special delivery, and a very important matter.  I tender you this package in the presence of these witnesses, and it is a legal delivery.  If you decline to come down and take it, and I leave it on your doorstep at the call of the first tramp who happens to come along, I have done my duty, and the loss is yours—­a matter of fifteen thousand dollars.”

“What! what!” shouted Martin.

“That is the amount.”

“From—­Dunn & Son?”

“I guess that’s right,” said Bart.  “Will you come down and take it?”

Martin did not reply.  He disappeared from the window, but left it open.  Bart heard him muttering to himself.

“Supposing he doesn’t come down?” questioned Bob, in a whisper.

“I think he will,” said Bart.  “Eleven forty-eight.  Mr. Martin,” he called out loudly, “I can’t wait here all night.”

“Shut up!” retorted an angry voice—­“I’m hurrying all I can.”

“He isn’t!” spoke Darry, in a low tone to Bart.  “He’s on to the business, and playing for time.”

“And he’s beat us!” breathed Bob—­“hear there! twelve o’clock.  Your delivery is no good, Bart!  It’s just struck a new day!”

“S—­sh!” warned Bart, as a clock inside the house rang out twelve silvery strokes.  “The clock is wrong.  We’ve got five minutes and a half yet.”