In his hiding place, Poodle was raging, but he kept quiet, as Jolls went on: “And you’ll keep sinking—I don’t know which’ll get you first, mud or starvation or mosquitoes. You’ll enjoy it. Just think of last night, and how much you liked the mosquitoes, in the marsh.... Now will you write that note? Or, maybe, do you think I’m just talking to hear myself talk? Do you think that I wouldn’t be glad to have you tied up, down there in the marsh?” Poodle waited with painful eagerness for Hike’s answer. Hike had seen what Jolls’ men could do—what did he believe—did he think that Jolls would really do this thing, or not? He was so anxious for the answer that he half withdrew himself from the concealing pile of rubbish; then plunged down again, and listened from below the crack in the wall, for he heard the leisurely step of the guard with the rifle. “Well,” Hike could be heard saying, after a pause, “I guess you’re just about enough of a skunk to do that. It won’t do you any good though. I won’t write that note, and that’s all there is to it. Besides, a great uncle of mine died in the swamps during the Civil War.... I don’t see where I’m any better than he was.... I’m sleepy now. I don’t think I’m very anxious to talk to you, any longer.” Poodle heard Hike pretend to snore. Jolls swore. Then the cabin door slammed. Some one yelled, “Come here, you fellows, Mr. Jolls wants to talk to you.” Poodle was frightened. He believed that Hike thought he was going to be killed. Never had he loved and admired Hike so much as he did then. He crawled near a corner of the shack, and saw a group of five toughs, surrounding Jolls and listening to him. Their voices were not loud. They were talking things that men do not want heard, ever. The droning burr of the locust in the golden haze of noon was louder. In a few minutes, Jolls stalked off, down the hill, and the thugs took their former places, two of them on guard, the others loafing under the trees, smoking, laughing, carelessly talking. Poodle wasn’t doing any of these three things. He hastened back to his rubbish heap, to get hidden before the guard came ’round back of the cabin. He pulled the damp straw as far up over him as it would go, and slanted a couple of stray boards over the pile, so that it hid him. Making himself as small as he could, under the rubbish, he picked at the crack at which he had been listening. The mud-filling between the logs had never been put on very well, and now it was crumbling badly, dry and flaky. He worked at it with his fingers till they bled, then poked it with his little penknife. Gradually, he made a hole clean through. Twisting about, he could look into the cabin.