Jim thought quick and hard, with chills and fever coursing over him _ad libitum_. He did not want to waken and frighten the boy. He managed to slip his arm out without disturbing the sleeper. But now! There wasn't a club around except the short sticks of the fire. A two-foot stick is not the proper equipment for rattler hunting, except to those born with nerves so strong that they do not hesitate to catch Mr. Crotalus by the tail and snap his head off. Jim thought of the rope he had used for a cinch, and made for it with his eye on the snake, lest the latter should approach closer to the boy. With a deep thankfulness for the heft of the rope, he returned and struck with all the strength of his big body, and pounded away in a sort of crazy rage, although the first stroke had done the business. He snapped the sweat from his brow as he looked down at the still writhing reptile. "My God! What might have happened if the boy hadn't waked me?" he thought. The superstition of the miner rose in him rampant. "I believe that kid's going to bring me good luck," he said. "Darned if I don't. Well, I could stand some." He took up the body of the rattler on a stick and heaved it far away, then lit his pipe. "I don't think I care for any more sleep to-night," he laughed. "Like Ches, it ain't that anything will hurt me out here, but I'm everlastingly scared." He watched the night out, revelling in his enjoyment of the mystery of the coming morning, that phase of the day which never ceases to be unreal, and which calls out of the watcher sentiments and emotions he is a stranger to for the rest of the day. The sun hung on the sharp point of Old Dog-Tooth like a portent, before he woke the boy. Ches was all amazement for a second; then he gave a glad cry. "Gee! Yer still here, ain't yer? No pipe in dis." He looked all around him. "Say! Dis is a reg'lar teeayter uf er place, ain't it?" he remarked. "Dis is der scene where der villun almost gits der gent wid der sword, if der stage mannecher didn't send sumun ter help 'im out." Jim laughed at the sophisticated infant. "You don't believe in the theater much, then, Ches?" "Aggh!" replied Ches. "If it ain't seven it's 'leven on der stage--but it's mostly craps in der street." "Well, son, there are such points on the dice," admitted Jim. "But let's have something to eat and we'll feel better." Ches rustled around after sticks in his funny, angularly active style, singing a song the while from the gladness of his heart. It was a merry song, about mother slowly going down the hectic path of phthisis pulmonalis, and sister, who has--one is led to believe--taken to small bottles, small hours and undesirable companions, refusing to come home and lift the mortgage which is shortly to be foreclosed--all in the narrow confines of twenty-five verses. Jim listened to the inspiriting ditty in astonishment.