We debated the question from every point of view. Of one thing we were determined: we would never be taken alive.
"There's the circus," I suggested. "Don't you suppose we could join that?"
"Like Toby Tyler? He had a horrible time!"
"It's better than stayin' all your life in a dungeon on bread and water hollowed out of the living rock," I reminded him.
"I'd have to go home first and get my decalcomania book," Jimmy stipulated.
"Well, that will be all right; I'll get my punch."
About my most cherished possession was a discarded punch, formerly used by a real conductor on a train. It seemed that I ought not present myself to the circus people empty-handed if Jimmy were going to bring his book of decalcomanias. It struck me that I might be especially welcome, as a ticket-taker, if I had a punch. I could work in that capacity while I was learning to ride bareback, or qualifying for the position of ring-master, or perhaps—so high do one's air-castles tower—that of clown!
Why not? Others had achieved it.
We decided to leave our refuge in the swamp, sneak up the meadow, pass the farm by a back route, and so to the highroad and home. Then, separating long enough to get the decalcomania book and the punch, we could camp for a night or two in Davenport's field, and join the circus in the morning. By the time the peacocks' eggs were missed we would be far away.