“Ever see folks fling thar own ladders off’n the bluffs, an’ land ’em ’mongst the tree-tops fur the birds ter roost in?” Skimpy stared, and ruefully shook his head. “Waal then! what ye talkin’ ’bout?” Binwell’s tone was cheerful, triumphant; a sinister triumph. The dumfounded Skimpy faltered,— “Whose war it, then?” “Dunno edzac’ly,” cried the blithe Binwell. “Waal, now, that ain’t fair!” protested Skimpy, indignantly. “I’m goin’ right down ter the Cove, and tell.” “Naw, ye won’t! Naw, ye won’t!” exclaimed the undismayed Binwell. “Ef ye do, ye’ll git jailed quick’n never war seen.” “I ain’t done nothin’,” cried Skimpy, recoiling. “Ain’t ye! Tote a man’s ladder up the mounting, over ter the Carliny side, an’ tumble it down ’mongst the pine tops, whar he’d hev ter make another ter reach it. Mebbe the constable an’ old Greeps, ez be jestice o’ the peace, don’t ’low ez that’s suthin’, but I reckon they will!” Skimpy was silent in acute dismay. Into what danger, what wrong-doing, had he not thrust himself by his disobedience! He looked at the grinning face, flushed by the fading remnant of the roseate sunset, feeling that he was in Binwell’s power, wondering what he should do, how he should be liberated from the toils spread for him. “See now, Skimp,” said Binwell beguilingly, and the poor boy’s heart leaped up at the kindly tone, for he sought to put the best construction on Jerry Binwell’s intentions, if only to calm his own despair and distress. “I could jes’ take ye under my arm—so,” he tucked Skimpy’s head under his arm and lightly lifted him high off his feet—“an’ strong ez I be I could fling ye off’n that bluff half down that thar gorge; thar wouldn’t be enough o’ ye lef’ ter pick up on a shovel; an’ that would keep ye from tellin’ tales on me, I reckon.” He swung the boy perilously close to the edge of the precipice, then set him gently on his feet. “But I don’t want ter hurt ye, an’ I ain’t goin’ ter do it. I know ye air a plumb honer’ble, good sorter boy, an’ ain’t goin’ ter make a tale-tell o’ yerse’f, even if ye wouldn’t git jailed. I wouldn’t trest no boy I ever see but you-uns. I wouldn’t trest Ike Guyther fur nuthin’. I war goin’ ter tell you-uns all ’bout’n it ennyways, even ’fore I fund that thar ladder. An’ then ye kin jedge whether I be right or wrong.” Skimpy, eager to be reassured, felt his heart lighten with the words. He strained his credulity to believe in Jerry Binwell. Surely he had not done so very wrong; there might be no harm in the man, after all. He drew a deep breath of relief, and then picked up his hat which had fallen from his head when Jerry Binwell was illustrating the terrible fate he might decree for the lad if he chose. The man was closely studying his face when their eyes met once more, but Binwell said simply that they had better go after Obadiah’s fiddle or night would overtake them before they found it. He talked as they went.