The Treasure of Alpheus Winterborn by John Bellairs Page A

out of the back of the truck.
    Anthony was panic-stricken. What if these guys started taking the wallpaper off the walls and then discovered... no, no. That simply couldn’t happen. Doncha see, you dumb clunk, he said to himself excitedly, this is your big chance! They’re gonna be opening up doors all over the house. Maybe they’ll open up the cellar door. Then you can do what you want to do.
    Trying hard to act nonchalant, Anthony sauntered around to the side of the house. The cellar door was directly opposite Mrs. Speece’s house. Mrs. Speece, otherwise known as old Eagle Eye. It was a solid-looking black door that stood at the bottom end of a stone ramp. The ramp and its stone-lined sides formed a kind of ditch, and the ditch was full of dead leaves. Anthony checked the door. Nope. It was still shut tight. Darn! But then, as he stood there watching, the doorknob turned. The door rattled and then moved inward. A few leaves fluttered in onto the cellar floor.
    Anthony felt extremely nervous. His heart was going like a trip hammer. The door was ajar, but whoever had opened it hadn’t come out. Maybe somebody was painting the basement and wanted the door open for air. Slowly, Anthony began to shuffle forward. His hand was in his pocket now. It closed around the little chip of wood. He edged down the little sloping ramp that led to the door. Dry leaves crackled under his feet. Now he was at the door. He peered inside. Nobody around. Good. Quick as a flash, he pulled out the chip of wood, stuck it into the bolt-hole, and stepped back. And at that moment, somebody behind him said, “Hey, kid! What the hell you think you’re doin’, huh?”
    Anthony froze. He jammed both hands into his pockets as if to prove that he hadn’t been doing anything with them. Then he turned around. Out by the street, next to the truck, was a man in coveralls. He was smoking a cigar. It was Mr. Loomis. Anthony had seen him in his father’s saloon a number of times. His dad and Mr. Loomis were old pals—sort of. At least Anthony hoped so.
    “I—I wasn’t doin’ nothin’, Mr. Loomis! Honest I wasn’t!”
    The man’s face softened when he saw that it was Anthony. “Oh, it’s you, Tony. Look, sorry to holler at you, but there’s been a bunch of kids pokin’ around here today makin’ life difficult for me. Did you want something?”
    “Uh, no, I didn’t, Mr. Loomis,” Anthony mumbled. He shuffled awkwardly up the ramp and started walking across the lawn toward Mr. Loomis. “I just, uh, I mean, I sorta wanted to see what the inside of this old house looked like.”
    “Casin’ the joint, hey?” said Mr. Loomis. He laughed and patted Anthony on the back. Anthony stiffened. “Say, tell me, are you the burglar that busted into old Missus Eells’s place? Come on, fess up! I got the goods on ya!”
    Anthony’s face got very red. He said nothing.
    Mr. Loomis puffed at his cigar and laughed hoarsely. “Just kiddin’, Tony, just kiddin’! Look, sometime when I don’t have a lot to do, I’ll show you around this dump. It’s a weird old place. All the rooms are funny-looking inside on account of the house has eight sides. But right now I’m busy as heck. See ya later.” He threw his cigar into the gutter, stepped on it, and turned away toward the house.
    “Okay, Mr. Loomis. See you later.” Anthony turned and started walking away fast. As he walked, he wondered if Mr. Loomis had seen him stick the chip of wood into the door. From the way Mr. Loomis had talked, Anthony figured that he probably hadn’t. Now he began to feel very smug and proud of himself. He had pulled a real burglar’s trick, and he had gotten away with it. Of course, the thought of actually breaking into somebody’s house frightened him. He had always been a very law-abiding boy. But here he was, planning to break into somebody’s house! That was a crime, a burglary. Did that mean he was turning into a criminal? No, Anthony told himself firmly. It was only