Once on the road, she let the pony run. She had never been out alone at night before. It was scary, she admitted to herself. Once an automobile, on the way to the club with somebody’s parents, caused her to dash off the road into the underbrush. Finally she reached the meeting place, and found two scared boys ahead of her. Shortly, the others arrived. There were no signs of hilarity over this adventure, they were all solemn and glum. Some of them were in Indian garb, with tomahawks; others in boy-scout hats, as pilgrims.
When they were all gathered they moved in a body to the camp. It was darker than pitch in the woods, so they had to lead the ponies, and they stumbled over tree trunks, and logs. Unseen things scuttled away underfoot, and terror began to spread like measles.
“Get the fire lighted, then we can see all right,” said Isabelle the dauntless.
They managed that finally and peered about them, as the weird shadows danced and made fantastic shapes.
“Let’s get the grub and eat,” said Herbert.
“Not yet, not till we do the play,” objected Isabelle. “Somebody bind up John Smith and the rest sit round the place where we’re going to execution him. The Indians can lurk——”
“Say, I ain’t goin’ to lurk in the dark, out there,” protested a brave, peering into the blackness.
“I am!” said Isabelle, marching upon unseen terrors among the trees.
“If you’re going to let a girl dare you!” cried Herbert, secretly glad that his rôle required no heroic exposure.