But Homer Phelps was having none of this great fun. Since his disgraceful refusal to be seized and executed he had been hovering unheeded on the outskirts of the band. He seemed very sorry; he cast a wistful eye at the romantic scene. He knew too well that if he went near at that particular time he would be certain to encounter a pitiless snubbing. So he vacillated modestly in the background. At last the moment came when he dared venture near enough to the fire to gain some warmth, for he was now bitterly suffering with the cold. He sidled close to Willie Dalzel. No one heeded him. Eventually he looked at his chief, and with a bright face said, "Now--if I was seized now to be executed, I could do it as well as Jimmie Trescott, I could." The chief gave a crow of scorn, in which he was followed by the other'boys. "Ho!" he cried, "why didn't you do it, then? Why didn't you do it?" Homer Phelps felt upon him many pairs of disdainful eyes. He wagged his shoulders in misery. "You're dead," said the chief, frankly. "That's what you are. We executed you, we did." "When?" demanded the Phelps boy, with some spirit. "Just a little while ago. Didn't we, fellers? Hey, fellers, didn't we?" The trained chorus cried: "Yes, of course we did. You're dead, Homer. You can't play any more. You're dead." "That wasn't me. It was Jimmie Trescott," he said, in a low and bitter voice, his eyes on the ground. He would have given the world if he could have retracted his mad refusals of the early part of the drama. "No," said the chief, "it was you. We're playin' it was you, an' it _was_ you. You're dead, you are." And seeing the cruel effect of his words, he did not refrain from administering some advice: "The next time, don't be such a chuckle-head." Presently the camp imagined that it was attacked by Indians, and the boys dodged behind trees with their stick-rifles, shouting out, "Bang!" and encouraging each other to resist until the last. In the mean time the dead lad hovered near the fire, looking moodily at the gay and exciting scene. After the fight the gallant defenders returned one by one to the fire, where they grandly clasped hands, calling each other "old pard," and boasting of their deeds. Parenthetically, one of the twins had an unfortunate inspiration. "I killed the Indy-un chief, fellers. Did you see me kill the Indy-un chief?" But Willie Dalzel, his own chief, turned upon him wrathfully: "_You_ didn't kill no chief. _I_ killed 'im with me own hand." "Oh!" said the twin, apologetically, at once. "It must have been some other Indy-un."