Joe Dawson halted, peering queerly into his chum’s face.
“Tom, you don’t mean that!”
“Yes, I do.”
“But the risk? I don’t mean the spook. You’d like only too well to meet that, I know. I mean the snakes. In a country as full of rattlers as this section is, it’s mighty dangerous to go stepping about through the woods on a dark night.”
“Dixon braved ’em, didn’t he?” challenged Tom Halstead, defiantly.
“He only says he did, remember. My idea is that he didn’t go very far into the woods.”
“Well—I’m going,” said Tom, deliberately, after a thoughtful pause.
“Be careful, then, old fellow!”
Joe, who seldom said much, and who rarely did anything demonstrative, reached out his hand, gripping Halstead’s.
“I’m wishing myself good luck,” laughed Halstead, over his shoulder, as he started away. “If I’m gone a goodish while, don’t worry. And remember that your post is guarding the house!”