“But frogs won't hurt you,” drawled Tom.
“I know all that,” sighed Nan. “But they sound as if they would. There! That one says, just as plain as plain can be, 'Throw 'im in! Throw 'im in!”
“Good!” chuckled Tom. “And there's a drunken old rascal calling: 'Jug-er-rum! Jug-er-rum!'!”
A nighthawk, wheeling overhead through the rain, sent down her discordant cry. Deep in a thicket a whip-poor-will complained. It was indeed a ghostly chorus that attended their slow progress through the swamp at Pine Camp.
When they crossed the sawdust tract there was little sign of the fire. The dead tree had fallen and was just a glowing pile of coals, fast being quenched by the gently falling rain. For the time, at least, the danger of a great conflagration was past.
“Oh! I am so glad,” announced Nan, impetuously. “I was afraid it was going to be like that Pale Lick fire.”
“What Pale Lick fire?” demanded Tom, quickly. “What do you know about that?”
“Not much, I guess,” admitted his cousin, slowly. “But you used to live there, didn't you?”
“Rafe and I don't remember anything about it,” said Tom, in his quiet way. “Rafe was a baby and I wasn't much better. Marm saved us both, so we've been told. She and dad never speak about it.”
“Oh! And Indian Pete?” whispered Nan.