Pink was obediently silent, 'though trembling with excitement. The stillness of the forest fell suddenly in upon them. For a few moments nothing was said or done. The man in the house had a momentary advantage which all recognized. What light the sky gave was all upon the clearing, and to move, however cautiously, through that tangle of weeds and bushes without setting the tops to waving, was impossible. The building was so small that the man could, with little effort, command all four sides. And so Beveridge decided on a council of war with Smiley. At his first movement another shot came cutting through the bushes; but he laughed aloud, and went deliberately on in a quarter circle until he found Smiley. “Well,” he said softly and gleefully, “we've got him.” “If we can keep awake as long as he can. What are you going to do now?” “Wait till dawn, and see how he stands it. No, don't look at me. Keep your eyes on the house. He's too slippery to run chances with. It oughtn't to be so very long now. How about you--can you keep up all right?” “Me? Why, certainly.” “All right, then. I 'll go around and take the boy's place, so he can rest a bit. Keep a close watch. So long.” “So long.” The special agent went on around his circle, and found Pink near the fence. “I 'll be here for a while, Harper. You'd better try to get some sleep.” “Me--sleep?” “Take your chance while you have it.” “Moses and the bulrushers! You don't think I could sleep now?” “Just as you like.” To the three watchers there seemed to be a breakdown somewhere on the line that leads to dawn. The hours dragged until they stopped short. All the real things of this world, cities and schooners and houses on stilts and long reaches of blue water, had slipped back into the dim land of dreams. Nothing was real but the brooding forest, the rank weeds with their tale of desolation, the sand--sand--sand. Even Beveridge, sitting on his log, gave way. At each sound from the forest,--a crackle or a rustle,--he started like a nervous woman. Chilled by the night air and his wet clothes, he shivered until his teeth rattled. A husky, plaintive voice rose into the night, singing. It came from Harper's post near the stump fence. “A fu-nee-ral per-cession was a-passin' down a street That was lin'd with mansions stately, rich, and grand; A tiny girl was sobbin', her lit-tull heart most broke, A tear-stained hank-er-chuff was in her hand. A tall and stately gentlemun, touched by her sorry plight, For she was pale and ragged, thin and wan, He stopped and took her lit-tull hand, and gently bending o'er, 'Don't cry, my child, I 'll help you if I can.'” All the horrors of the night and the forest were gathered up into that wailing voice. Beveridge shuddered. But Pink was warming up to it now, sharing his misery with the night. If the verse had been doleful, the refrain was worse:--