In another way, however, it appeared quite proper to whisper. I was reflecting that, aside from a night spent in a tent with two or three other boys, in Peter Bailey's garden, I had never slept outdoors. It also occurred to me that we had no bedclothes nor pillows. We had blankets that night in the tent, and made pillows out of piles of hay. The hay tickled the back of your neck somewhat, but otherwise it was all right. "We might sleep in Brown's barn," I suggested. "That's so," Ed replied. Then an afterthought struck him. "No; we couldn't do that." "I don't see why not." "Why, of course we couldn't. There ain't any barns on the prairies!" I had never thought of that. The objection was unanswerable. "Besides," pursued Ed, with something like a shudder, "tramps sleep in these barns." I abandoned the plan hastily. "Could we get some hay from the barn?" I wondered; "there won't be any tramps in there now, will there?" "I guess not. We needn't go all the way in,--we can reach some by just openin' the door." He was on the point of rising when another objection occurred to me. "Maybe Mr. Brown wouldn't like it." "He hasn't any right to say anything 'bout it. In time of war they take what they want, don't they? They make a forced _levi_." This subject of the forced "levi" had been discussed amongst us at some length in connection with Mr. Hawkins' cherries. Jimmy Toppan and Rob Currier had the impression that it had something to do with a clothing dealer on Main Street. "Anyway," Ed remarked, "we can put the hay back in the morning." This seemed to be a reasonable solution in order to keep our career as outlaws on a moral basis. So we arose and started cautiously for the barn. Before we had taken five steps in that direction, a voice spoke. It was a deep, resonant voice, charged with authority and menace. The word or phrase that it uttered was not, it seemed to us, especially relevant, but there could be no mistaking the import of its accent and tone. It came from the earth, from the sky, from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general. It said: "_Ker-r-rum!_" Having said this, it was instantly silent. The final syllable ended suddenly, but yet with a twang as if some giant had touched the string of a great instrument. The hush that ensued was appalling. I had sat down, as if struck to the earth, the moment I heard the awful sound, and now I tried to address Ed Mason, who was leaning faintly against a tree. But I made three efforts before my vocal apparatus responded. "Wh-what was it?" I asked. He turned toward me, and said something in a whisper, which I could not make out. I sat still for a moment longer, then hitched myself toward him and repeated my question. But he could not answer me. Neither could he say whence the sound came. That was the horrible part of it--the vague immensity of the note. We remained motionless for what we thought a long time.