“Shucks! Go ahead, Jerry. You’ll make a peachy ghost in your fancy nightshirt. It’ll be fun, too.”
“ ‘Fun’?” I repeated, giving him a stiff look. “I wouldn’t call it ‘fun’ to have a bullet plugged into me.”
“They haven’t any guns.”
“Bid Stricker’s a good shot with a rock,” I came back, looking out for myself. “And I’m not so small that he wouldn’t be able to crack me one if he half tried.”
“I never heard of anybody pitching rocks at a ghost,” Peg argued.
“Of course not,” Scoop put in quickly, in support of his scheme. “The proper thing for a fellow to do when he sees a ghost,” he added, acting as though he knew it all, “is to take to his heels and skiddo. And that’s exactly what the Strickers will do when they get sight of you, Jerry. Honest, kid, I don’t want to envy you the fun you’re going to have, but I’d think I was [[200]]pretty lucky, let me tell you, to have a ghost shirt like yours.”
“To show you how unselfish I am,” I offered quickly, “I’ll trade you my nightshirt for your pants even-up.”
But he shook his head.
“No, Jerry,” he refused, in put-on seriousness. “I’m your loyal chum and I would be ashamed of myself to take advantage of you in a trade. Besides, I don’t believe that the nightshirt would fit me. My legs aren’t shaped like yours.”
I was getting hot at him for trying to crowd me into taking the risky part.