THE bus disappeared down the highway, leaving Jeff Adam in what looked like the middle of nowhere. Suitcase in hand, he started along the narrow, curving side lane. By now, starts were shining. He began to enjoy his walk past dark and silent woods. Only twice did he pass house. Both were dark.
At last the lane met a larger road. Across the road was a driveway. A sign beside it under an old-fashioned lamp said "Westham Inn." Under the name, in smaller letters, was the name of the owner, Ambrose Bunker.
Jeff had talked to Mr. Bunker on the phone. Mr. Bunker needed a summer helper. The helper had to be over twenty-one. Jeff felt sure he would get the job. Pretty sure, anyway.
"Keep your fingers crossed," he told himself, and started up the gravel driveway. Every few yards it was lined with large stone painted white. They shone dimly in the darkness under the tree and bushes.
A piece of gravel flipped into Jeff's shoe. It felt sharp as a knife. Growling to himself, he sat down on a large stone beside a bush.
Taking off his shoe, he dumped out the gravel. The he sat peering ahead up the driveway. On one side he could see a few small dark buildings. They looked like cottages. Beyond them, lights twinkle through the tree. That was probably the main house.
As he was pulling on his shoe, a movement in the darkness ahead made his glance the driveway. While he watched, the man came nearer, tiptoeing along. It was too dark to see what he looked like.
He stopped alongside the nearest cottage. Jeff sat still, hidden by his bush. The man turned and went to work on one of the cottage window-screens.
Slowly he managed to push it up in its slot.
A burglar!
Jeff rose silently to his feet. If he caught a burglar, Mr. Bunker would surely give him the job. He move carefully forward, keeping off the gravel. His thick-soled shoe were noiseless on the grass.The man was just getting ready to climb in through the window when Jeff pounce on him.
There was a short wrestling-match. Then Jeff was sitting on top of short, plump, bald man who stared up at him popeyed through round glasses.Sitting on top of him was like sitting on top of a small round hill. The burglar had not been dieting lately. Jeff pinned his arms against the ground.
"All right," growled Jeff, "now let's go see Mr. Bunker."
"What do you mean?" snapped the man. "I am Mr. Bunker!"
"What do you?" demanded Mr. Bunker, "and what are you doing here?"
"I—er—I'm Jeff Adams. The one who phoned about the summer job."
"What? I didn't expect you till tomorrow!"
"I got a chance for a ride most of the way today, so I came."
Mr. Bunker snorted. "Fine thing! Do you usually ask someone for a job while you're sitting on his stomach?"
"No sir," said Jeff, and hastily got off it. Mr. Bunker stood up and brushed himself off angrily. Jeff's sense of humor got the best of him. He grinned.
"I'll admit, this ia an unusual job interview," he said.
"Hah! Well, I certainly don't need a wise guy who jumps me in the dark!"
"Oh, I don't know about that,"said Jeff, still amused, and glanced at the open window.
The small plump man's round eye followed his glance. Then Mr. Bunker drew himself up.
"Now, wait a minute! It's not the way you think!"
But suddenly he realized how thing looked.
Even in the dark Jeff could tell his face was red.
"Listen, come inside and I'll explain," he snapped. "Wait till I pull this screen down again . . ."
"I'll get my bag," said Jeff, and hurried down the driveway, grinning to himself. Somehow he could not believe Mr. Bunker was a part-time burglar, stealing from his own guests. But at the same time, though Jeff, certainly have him in a crack!
