Pickles was silent. He was picturing to himself the process of the Ring in the making. So was Hopalong. It seemed very matter-of-fact as Whitby told it; still, there was something— "What’s she do that for?" asked Pickles—the very question Hopalong was asking himself. "It’s the bad fairies, you know, and Wizards, and that sort of thing; she ’s afraid of them. But they can’t pass the Ring, no matter how deep they dig, so the Witch is quite safe, you know. They ’re a bad lot, those others, no end. But the Old Witch is quite a decent sort. She lives inside the Ring, under the ground, and that’s where you go to get your wish." Pickles pondered. His eyes began to glow. "Any wish?" he questioned, in subdued excitement. "All sorts," declared Whitby. "There was Jimmie Pickering: he always got his wish; he told me so, himself; and Arthur Cooper: he wished to be a minister and he got his wish; and George Hick: he wished to see the world and he ’s always travelling up and down the earth; and Allen Ramsey, who wished to be an athlete, strong, you know: he got his wish; then there was Maggie Sheffield, who wished to marry a soldier: she married a soldier; and Vi Glades, who wished to be a singer: she can sing tears into your heart, lad, so sweet you ’re glad to have them there; so she got her wish. And ever so many more: they all got their wishes. She was a rare good one, that Witch." "Did you get yore wish, Whit?" "I could only count to seven," explained Whitby. Pickles’ lips moved silently. "How many do you have to count?" he asked, dubiously. "Nine," said Whitby, with a regretful sigh. "You run around the Ring nine times, holding your breath and saying your wish to yourself over and over again. Then you run into the middle and lie down. You must n’t breathe until you lie down. When you put your ear to the ground you can hear the Old Witch churning out your wish. ’Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug!’ goes the churn, away down in the earth. Then you know you will get your wish." Pickles straightened up and looked fixedly at Whitby. His voice was very solemn: "Whit, I take my oath there’s a Witch’s Ring right here on the range!" "Nonsense!" "Hope I may die! I ’ll show you, to-morrow. An’ I ’m a-goin’ to wish—" "I say! You must n’t tell your wish, you know. That breaks the Spell. If ever you tell your wish, it does n’t come true." "Jiggers!—I won’t tell. Nine times ’round the Ring an’ hol’ yore breath an’ say yore wish fast an’ then to th’ middle—" Hopalong lost the rest as he continued on his way to the stable. Pickles’ Ring puzzled him only for a moment, for as he turned away from the window, he was chuckling. "Means some place where th’ Injuns used to war-dance, I reckon," was his conclusion. "But that Britisher seems like he believed it himself."