"Yes—don't interrupt me. 'Harvey Baker, if I tell what you show me, I hope I may be forever doomed and tortured.'"
Beth looked shocked. "I won't say that."
"'Fraid-cat. 'Fraid-cat."
Again she stamped her foot. "I won't be called that. It's not true. I will promise not to tell. Can't you believe me?"
The boy considered. "Girls are hardly ever to be trusted, but I'll try you. In this river there is a great, big, black animal that hates fraid-cats as much as I do. He eats them up. Why, he has such fierce jaws and sharp teeth that he could gobble up a little girl like you in one mouthful."
Beth felt that her hair must be standing up on end. She would have run away, had not pride detained her—and then the recital rather fascinated her. Harvey continued, relishing the effect of his story:
"Now I have only to whistle to have the awful animal appear. His head will slowly rise above the water. His jaws will open. His teeth will gleam. If any little girl cries, he will snap at her, and it will be good-bye girl. Now, if you are not a fraid-cat you'll say, 'Harvey Baker, whistle.'"
She wanted to run more than ever, but instead she repeated slowly:
"Harvey Baker, whistle."
The boy pursed up his lips, but he then made an impressive pause, and finally pointed his finger at Beth.