“About 800 feet, I should say, Miss Garrison. It's quite a drop to the rocks down there. Well, we're off to the top of Craneycrow. Isn't that a jolly old name?”
“Chick o' me, Chick o' me, Craneycrow, Went to the well to wash her toe, When she got back her chicken was dead—chick o' me, Chick o' me, chop off his head—What time is it, old witch?”
“Who gave the castle such an odd, uncanny name?” asked Dorothy, under the spell of their blithesome spirits.
“Lady Jane—the young lady on your left, an' may it please you, Miss,” said Dickey.
“Bob couldn't think of a name for the old thing, so he commissioned me. Isn't Craneycrow delightful? Crane—that's a bird, you know, and crow is another bird, too, you know; isn't it a joy? I'm so proud of it,” cried Lady Jane, as she scurried up the narrow, winding stone steps that led to the top of the tower. Dorothy followed more sedately, the new-born smile on her lips, the excitement of a new emotion surging over the wall of anger she had thrown up against these people.
“I wish I could go out and explore the hills and rocks about this place,” said Dickey, wistfully.
“Why can't you? Is it dangerous?” queried Dorothy.
“Heavens, no! Perfectly safe in that respect. Oh, I forgot; you don't know, of course. Phil Quentin and your devoted servant are not permitted to show their faces outside these walls.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, we're in America. Don't you understand? You're not the only prisoner, Miss Garrison. Behold two bold, bad bandits as your fellow captives. Alas! that I should have come to the cruel prison cell!”