“Rats!” laughed Scoop. “You aren’t in any danger, Jerry.”
“Something’s the matter with my knees,” I shivered. “They wiggle.”
“Toe in and they’ll be all right.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “you fellows better come along with me and sort of prop me up on each side.”
“Forget it!”
“I want to,” I returned quickly, “but you won’t let me.”
“Shucks! Think of the satisfaction of being able to tell the Strickers later on that you were the ‘ghost’ that put them scooting.”
“They may ‘scoot’ at me,” I worried, “and knock my block off.”
Well, it had to be done. So, with a sort of resigned [[202]]sigh, I got ready to do it. Arranging my rope hair so that it hung down in my eyes I gripped my crooked cane and went across the open spot where the campfire had been built to the big tent, which, as Peg had said, was set up directly over the place where we had buried the bonds. Squinting inside, I saw Bid and another member of the gang snoozing to beat the cars. His mouth open, the leader was going: “Hee-e-e-haw-w-w! Hee-e-e-haw-w-w!” At sight of him I stiffened. What he had coming to him! Oh, mamma! The thought of it sort of perked me up and stiffened my grit. I had had to endure many mean tricks at his hands. But now I was to get even. I was glad.
In line with Scoop’s instructions I gave a sort of graveyard groan, standing in full view within the moonlit tent. Bid moved in his sleep. Another blood-curdling groan brought his eyes wide open. He gave a gasp at sight of my white nightshirt and rope hair. From the sound he made I could imagine that his heart had just gone kerplunk! into a puddle in the pit of his stomach. Raising himself on his hands he blinked at me, as though he couldn’t make himself believe that he really was awake.