“Suppose we go down there now,” I suggested. “We might find out something.”
Dicky stopped short.
“Cæsar's ghost!” he gasped; “what next? Wouldn't you like to touch off a few powder-kegs for amusement? Won't you fire a pistol into your mouth to show how easy you can stop the bullet?”
“Why, you have been down there and are all right,” I argued.
“Well, there's nothing much to happen to me, but where would you be if they got hold of you? You're getting off your cabesa, old fellow,” said Dicky anxiously.
“If I could see Mother Borton I could fix it,” I said confidently.
“What! That she-devil?” cried Dicky. “She'd give you up to have your throat cut in a minute if she could get a four-bit piece for your carcass. I guess she could get more than that on you, too.”
Mother Borton's warnings against Dicky Nahl returned to me with force at this expression of esteem from the young man, and I was filled with doubts.
“I came up to tell you to look out for yourself,” continued Dicky. “I'm afraid they mean mischief, and here you come with a wild scheme for getting into the thick of it.”
“Well, I'll think better of it,” I said. “But see if you can find out what is going on. Come up and let me know if you get an inkling of their plans.”