Freckles stared at her.
“Angel!” he shouted, “I bet you it's a marked tree!”
“Course it is!” cried the Angel. “No one would cut that sapling and carry it away there and lean it up for nothing. I'll tell you! This is one of Jack's marked trees. He's climbed up there above anyone's head, peeled the bark, and cut into the grain enough to be sure. Then he's laid the bark back and fastened it with that pole to mark it. You see, there're a lot of other big maples close around it. Can you climb to that place?”
“Yes,” said Freckles; “if I take off my wading-boots I can.”
“Then take them off,” said the Angel, “and do hurry! Can't you see that I am almost crazy to know if this tree is a marked one?”
When they pushed the sapling over, a piece of bark as big as the crown of Freckles' hat fell away.
“I believe it looks kind of nubby,” encouraged the Angel, backing away, with her face all screwed into a twist in an effort to intensify her vision.
Freckles reached the opening, then slid rapidly to the ground. He was almost breathless while his eyes were flashing.
“The bark's been cut clean with a knife, the sap scraped away, and a big chip taken out deep. The trunk is the twistiest thing you ever saw. It's full of eyes as a bird is of feathers!”
The Angel was dancing and shaking his hand.