“Anyway,” Jimmie continued, facetiously, “they wouldn’t have to shoot Gilroy to get him rolling down the incline. All they’d have to do would be to poke a finger and yell ‘scat!’ and away he’d go. Honest, Ned,” the boy continued, a little ashamed of his lack of reverence, “that Gilroy is the limit when it comes to getting scared!”
“You must remember,” Ned observed, “that this is all new to Gilroy.”
“All new!” repeated Jimmie. “I should say so. That fellow doesn’t know any more about rough-house than a pig knows about the tariff issue. Actually, Ned, I don’t believe he could rough-house a baby cart.”
While the boys were talking a faint light appeared at the top of the incline to the east. It wavered about aimlessly for a moment and then passed from view. It was not such a light as would be thrown by an electric torch but rather indicated the flaring of a match in the wind.
Two shots followed the showing of the tiny light, and then a perfect shower of stones rolled down the incline and splashed into the pool at the bottom.
“Gee!” whispered Jimmie. “If I ever get back to little old N. Y., I’m going to have a friend of mine paint this scene for a back-drop in the Devil’s auction! Wouldn’t it make a hit?”
“Jimmie,” Ned reprimanded, “I’d like sometime to see you plunged into a set of circumstances which would throw you into a serious mood.”
“Aw, what’s the use?” Jimmie returned. “All the wind-jamming I do here won’t make any difference with what’s going on out there on the pit.”
“I’d feel a good deal safer,” Ned said in a moment, “if I knew that Frank and Jack were safe. I am beginning to fear that they found an exit through the old passage, and, rather than make their way back up the incline, returned to the pit up the slope.”
“I never thought of that,” Jimmie answered very gravely. “Here I’ve been shooting off hot air at what’s going on, and Frank and Jack may be the ones who are getting the kibosh.”