“He ought to be yelling blub-bloody murder by this time,” murmured Osceola, the Seminole.
“Can yeou hear anything, Berlin?” asked Tecumpseh, the Shawnee.
“How can I hear anything with all you fellows pushing and chattering?” fretfully retorted the one at the door.
“My deduction is,” said the chap who had pulled the cords, “that he’s too scared to even utter a chirp.”
“I bate a hundred dollars,” laughed King Philip, “that this will cook him so he won’t tell no more yarns about hunting Indians and lynching cattle thieves.”
“Shut up!” once more ordered the leader. “I can hear something now. Listen to that. What’s he doing?”
The sounds, low and weird and doleful, issuing from that small, dark room, filled them with unspeakable astonishment.
“So help me, Bob,” spluttered King Philip, “he’s singing!”
It was a sad and doleful wailing, like a funeral dirge, and the jokers, who had been ready to shriek with laughter a few moments before, were now struck dumb by wonderment, and more than one of them felt a shiver creep along his spine. Suddenly the singing ceased, but it was followed by a burst of wild laughter even more startling.
“He’s gug-giving us the ha-ha,” said Osceola. “Now what do you think of that!”