"Lord!" gasped Cranch. "It’s a real Indian, sure as preaching! And he looks murderous!"
Cranch was scared, and he remained on the roof of the shed.
"Come down," invited Old Joe. "Come down, white boy, and let chief take um scalp."
"Not if I know it!" chattered Cranch.
Then the old Indian proceeded to squat upon the ground and bring out his pipe, which he lighted.
"He’s going to wait for me to come down!" muttered the boy. "Well, he’ll wait a long time."
So he remained on the shed, while Old Joe smoked below. And the time slipped away. Cranch saw the sun getting down in the west, and knew the football game was on.
At last, becoming desperate, Cranch resolved to make an effort to get away. He believed he could run fast enough to escape this old savage, provided he could reach the ground. Of a sudden he slid down the roof and jumped to the ground. Regaining his feet, he was off like a frightened deer.
He never knew if Old Joe pursued. Thinking the Indian might be at his heels, he ran until he fell exhausted. He was alone, but the experience he had passed through made him a shuddering, shaking, fearful chap, and it seemed that every tree-trunk and every old stump hid an Indian with a knife.
Cranch was never able to tell just what happened after that, but he wandered about for a long time. At last he came out of the woods and followed a road. Meeting a man in a wagon, he asked the direction to Fardale Academy, and was told the way to go.