Sig did not look in his direction at all. Was he going back to the old house? Suppose he was? It was a spooky place but exciting. Had Sig found something in that locked room? Artie had not asked him. Now he wondered. But Sig was waiting there at the corner. Not for Artie, he never turned around to see him. No, he was waving at someone on the other side of the street. Why, it was that dopey kid who wouldn’t tell his right name. What was Sig doing with him?

Artie trailed half a block behind the other two, who had joined forces. Yes, they were heading for the old house. They had stopped by the wall, were looking around. Moved by an impulse he did not understand, Artie crouched down behind a rubbish can. It did not hide him very well, but he guessed they did not see him, for they were going on in. Suddenly he was determined to follow them. If Sig had found something he should have told Artie, not that dope! After all, Artie had been with him that first time. Maybe Sig thought Artie was too chicken because he had not stayed. Well, he would go in behind them, see what they had found, then let them know he’d watched them. That would show Sig!

He watched Sig climb through the window, Ras slipping in after him. Artie, still holding the football, followed. They had a flashlight, he did not. But today there was enough light for him to find his way. He heard the murmur of their voices, but not their words.

They had gone right to the room Sig had wanted to open that first time. Artie slipped along the wall of the hall as quietly as he could, trying to hear.

“Heads takes the red—that fair?” Sig asked.

“Right!”

There was a moment of silence and then Sig said, with disappointment, “Tails. Well, are you going to try?”

There was another period of quiet and then Artie heard Ras say in a very excited voice, “You saw that, didn’t you? It—it moved right away from my fingers!”

“Let me try!” Sig sounded impatient.

“See? It does that for you, too!”

“Let’s try the yellow one then.”

Red what? Yellow what? Artie was so curious he almost went to the doorway to see.

“It’s no good,” Sig said. “That first time, the pieces went together as if they wanted to, like I was hardly working at it. Was it the same for you?”

“Yes. But now it won’t. See, I can’t even hold a piece, it slips right away from me. Sig, do you suppose that means we are not going to be able to finish it?”

“But why not? What good is it only half done? There is no reason—”