Max made a choice. He met with the same result that had given Steve such an overwhelming sense of disappointment.
Then Owen stepped up eagerly.
"I've got it picked out," he remarked, "and it's all over but the shouting." Then he chose, and was jeered by Steve.
"That leaves it a toss-up between Toby Jucklin and Bandy-legs!" he exclaimed, envy plainly marked in his voice.
The two who had yet to draw looked a little frightened. Truth to tell, neither of them experienced anything in the shape of an overwhelming desire to "slay the jabberwock," as Owen put it.
"Draw, Toby, and be quick about it," Steve flung out; "don't you see the old chap's getting all out of patience. Pull out a straw, now, and be done with it. Whatever you draw settles it."
So Toby, with trembling fingers, did as he was told. And immediately he glanced down at the one he had taken, he grinned.
For it was one of the longer straws, similar to those taken by the others. Bandy-legs grew pale.
"Do I have to draw?" he asked, almost piteously.
"Sure you do!" cried Steve. "There's only one left, and you draw that. It's the fatal short one, too. You ring up the prize, Bandy-legs!"