The Treasure of Alpheus Winterborn by John Bellairs Page B

going to be this once.
     
    Days passed. October turned into November. Now that he had set things up for the big break-in, Anthony was developing cold feet. It was one thing to stick a piece of wood in a door, and something else to be a real-life burglar. Night after night, as he walked home from the library, Anthony thought, I could do it now. I really could. But then he would say to himself, No, it’s not late enough. Old Eagle Eye will be awake. She’ll see. Besides, I need to have tools. I need a mallet and a chisel and some other stuff. (He could have gotten these tools from his dad’s tool chest in the garage, but he hadn’t yet gotten around to taking them.) He would make other excuses to himself, excuses of all kinds. Then he would bite his lip and call himself a coward because he was afraid of old Eagle Eye. He began to think that maybe he would never get up the courage to do what he wanted to do.
    Late one cold November night, Anthony lay awake in his bed. Downstairs, his folks were arguing—the old familiar scene. For a while, the arguments had stopped because Mr. Monday had been too sick to stay up late at night. But now his health was returning, and that was one of the things that tonight’s argument was about—Mr. Monday’s health. Mr. Monday was planning to open up the store again whether Doc Luescher gave him the go-ahead or not.
    Anthony lay there, wide-eyed, listening to the battle. He began to torture himself with accusations. As far as he was concerned, this fighting and bickering was his fault. If he had only had the guts to go down and get that treasure out, they would be rich, and everything would be fine. After all, the burglary was all set up. All he had to do was push a door open and walk in. But he just couldn’t force himself. He was scared of getting caught.
    The argument was over. Anthony could hear chairs scraping around. His folks were coming up to bed. The shelf clock in the front hall struck eleven, then twelve, then one. But Anthony still lay there motionless, wide awake under the covers. Then, with a sudden motion, he flung back the sheet and the blankets. He sat up, swung around, and put his feet on the floor. He padded noiselessly over to the closet, put his shirt and pants on over his pajamas, and laced up his tennis shoes.
    How he managed to get down to Front Street, Anthony never remembered. It was as if the whole thing were happening in a dream, as if some force outside himself were moving him around from place to place. All he knew was that sometime after he got dressed and slipped out of the house, he was down on Front Street and crouching behind a bush in the side yard of the old Winterborn place, shivering with the cold. And he was mad at himself because he hadn’t brought any tools with him. His heart was beating fast, and his body felt prickly all over. His blood was pounding in his ears. He felt very strange, but he was there, he was at the house. That was all that mattered. As for the tools, men had been working in the house, and they had probably left some lying around. If not, he would dig the treasure out of that wall with his nails if he had to.
    Anthony crouched there, staring at the cellar door. He could see it clearly by the light of the street lamp. Behind him was the house of old Eagle Eye. It was completely dark. Anthony felt his body grow tense. He clenched his fists. He stood up and started walking across the frozen grass toward the house. He walked with swift, resolute strides. He was almost there...
    And then something happened.
    Anthony heard a loud barking sound. A growling dog was rushing at him. It had leaped out of the doghouse that stood near the back porch—the doghouse that was supposed to be empty now! Anthony screamed, “No, no! Help!” Then he turned and ran, hell for leather, across the backyard of the Winterborn house and across Mrs. Speece’s backyard. Suddenly, as he was about to cross the sidewalk that ran from Mrs. Speece’s back