He looked sharply at the boy, who said not a word, but simply stared at him as he stood on the verge of the Bluff in the slanting melancholy yellow light of the waning moon. There was a quiver in Binwell’s nostril, a nervous motion of the lips, a keen inimical gleam of the eyes under his hat brim. He was giving Ike more notice than he had ever before bestowed on him. “Hey!” he cried jocularly, clapping the boy on the shoulder, “don’t ye tell on me, Ike—ye won’t, will ye?” This direct appeal brought an answer. But Ike was on his guard. “Mebbe then uncle Ab would quit thinkin’ ez how _he_ could,” he said cautiously. Jerry Binwell suddenly changed his tactics. “Tell ennybody ye want ter, ye wide-mouthed shoat, ye! Ef I can’t climb down thar nobody else kin, an’ nobody air a-goin’ ter try. Got too tender feelin’s fur thar necks. I ain’t ashamed o’ gittin’ old nohow! Ye’ll be whar I am some day, Ike, ef ye don’t die fust.” He strode on ahead with a deft free step. Ike, doubtful and grievously ill at ease, followed. Come what might he felt that he would tell his father all, and let him solve the mystery about this strange guest. Then he began to reflect how slight this “all” was. There were the innuendoes of the men at the store; but his father knew as well as he how little Jerry Binwell had been liked in his early youth, how strong the prejudice remained. The affront to old Corbin was indeed reprehensible, but as to climbing about the rocks at night surely any one might do that who was foolish or idle or nimble enough. Ike was surprised that although he found in summing up there was no positive heinous wickedness involved, his aversion to the man remained and his resolution was strong. He would tell his father all that he had heard, that he had seen. He would shift the responsibility. His shoulders were not strong enough to carry it.