“She’ll send word to every crook in the country to spot the Chicken, and you know it. And when word comes back that there ain’t no trace of him—”
“You’ve lost your nerve, that’s what ails you,” said Wixy scornfully.
“No, I ain’t,” Sandlot insisted. “I’ve heard plenty of fellers tell how Mother Smith keeps tabs on anybody that tries to do her out of ten cents even. Why, maybe the Chicken promised to come back that night and pay up. I bet he did! And I bet he was sour on Sal. And I bet Mother Smith knew it all the time, and that when he didn’t come back that night she sent out word to spot him or us. I bet you!”
“You’ve lost your nerve!” said Wixy drunkenly. “You never did have no nerve. You’re so scared you’re seein’ ghosts.”
“All right!” said Sandlot, rising. “I’ll see ghosts, then. But I’ll see them by myself. You can go—”
“Goo’-bye!” said Wixy carelessly, and finished the last drop in his bottle. “Goo’-bye, ol’ Sandlot! Goo’-bye!”
Sandlot hesitated a moment and then arose and, after a parting glance at Wixy, struck out across the drying floor of the brick-yard, and was lost in the darkness. Wixy blinked and balanced the empty bottle in his hand.
“He’s afraid!” he boasted to himself. “He’s coward. ’Fraid of dark. ’Fraid of ghosts. Los’ his nerve. I ain’ ’fraid.”
He arose to his feet unsteadily.