CHAPTER 14THE FLAT BURGLARY
It was long past midnight, and a slow, winter rain was falling.
Shivering with the cold, and muttering imprecations against the weather, Parks and Nixon left the shelter of the chophouse and walked rapidly toward Wabash Avenue.
“We ought to have been out an hour ago,” muttered the former, “then we shouldn’t have missed the cable.”
“The owl car’s all right for a job like this,” was the sullen reply. “You’ll be wanting a hack next.”
“Why not take a hack down as far as Thirty-ninth Street?” demanded Parks. “It will be daylight before we get there at this rate.”
“Have you the price?”
“Of course.”
“Then call a cab.”
In a moment the two men, fairly well housed from the storm, were whirling southward.
“Who first got onto this plant?” asked Parks, as they rode
