“Don’t you be so superior, Karsten boy,” I said. “You would not dare to go up in the top loft, not for a million dollars.”
“Yes, indeed, I dare.”
“Well, go then.”
“That would be the easiest thing in the world for me,” Karsten announced; “but there is nothing brave about going up there now.”
“Oh, he’s afraid!” “Shame on him!” “It’s a disgrace for a boy to be afraid.”
We taunted and teased him, all three of us, and pointed scornful fingers at him. “Sha-a-me!”
“I’d just as soon go up there this very minute, if that’s what you want,” said Karsten, stoutly.
Yes, it was exactly what we wanted. Another long argument from him, more and more teasing from us; at last he was sick of it.
“Well, I’m going. You shall see I’m no ’fraid-cat, not I.” And out of the door he ran. We heard him tramp up the attic stairs, and stumble around making all the noise he could as he crossed the long garret.
Never had I admired Karsten so much. He isn’t anything to admire in daily life, more’s the pity, but when he ran up to that haunted attic I had to admire him.