The white face was once more turned downward, and the man coughed and seemed to try to spit out his doubt. It had evidently not occurred to him that he himself was unrecognized, for with a tone that indicated that he sought to make the best of an awkward situation he said, “Why, I hearn Ab talkin’ wunst in a while ’bout climbin’ down Keedon Bluffs, ter that old cannon-ball on that ledge, an’ I ’lowed I’d try ef the thing could be done—jes’ fur fun—ha! ha! Toler’ble tough fun, though.” The vain effort at jollity, the strained nervous tone, the merciless echoes exaggerated a thousand fold. But Ike Guyther sat unheeding, more perturbed than he could well have expressed. It was Jerry Binwell, his father’s guest. How had he escaped, Ike wondered, from the roof room where his host thought he lay sleeping? Had he stolen out from amongst the unconscious family, leaving the doors ajar that any marauder might enter? He could not. Old Hiram slept as lightly as a cat, and the blind man was often wakeful and restless. And what could be his object here in the stealthy midnight, risking life and limb—nay, neither! Ike Guyther, watching him climbing—with the frightful depths below into which a false step would instantly precipitate him—lost that morbid and nervous fascination which a feat of great danger induces in the spectator, and began suddenly to experience a sort of confidence, merging into certainty. He was amazed at the lightness, the strength, the marvelous elasticity, the fine precision of every movement. Strain credulity as he might, he could not believe Binwell when he said suddenly, “But I ain’t goin’ ter try it enny furder—break my neck! This hyar chicken is a-gittin’ old an’ stiff; couldn’t git down thar ter save my life.” He climbed up and up, his silent shadow climbing with him till he neared the spot where Ike sat, when he suddenly paused. “Git up, Ike,” he said; “that’s the only place whar thar’s purchase enough ter pull up by.” He evidently knew all the ground. Ike dragged himself out of the way, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood pensively watching him as he pulled himself to the verge, and then upon his knees, and so to his feet on the roadside. He paused for a moment, panting. He looked at his companion with an expression which had no relation to the words on his lips. Many a boy might not have detected this yawning gulf between what he meant and what he said, but Ike’s senses were sharpened by suspicion and anxiety. “Whew! Great Molly Har’!” Jerry mopped his brow with his red cotton handkerchief. “I’m too old fur sech didoes as this hyar—old man’s a-goin’ fas’. Knees plumb bent. Don’t ye laff, Ike! Don’t ye laff.” Ike had shown no sign of merriment. “An’ ’fore everything don’t ye tell Ab ez I tried ter climb down Keedon Bluffs ter that old ball, an’ couldn’t. I wouldn’t hev the mounting ter git a-holt o’ that thar joke on me fur nuthin’!”