“No, indeedy, not now!” he said, chuckling, and then turned to Ol’ Pop. “How cum, yer ol’ crony you, thet ye picked thet durn place ter hide yer money?”
“Cuz,” answered Ol’ Pop, not very informative, “I didn’ believe in any fool ghosts, ’n you ’n all the folks here’bouts did.”
After breakfast, when they got good and ready, Westy and Artie started off around the lake, feeling for all the world like two officials of the law. Westy, in the lead going up the Cliff trail, had Uncle Jeb’s rifle nonchalantly slung over his left shoulder. No matter how indifferently placed it looked to the beholder, Westy was perfectly aware of its exact position, for it took him at least five minutes to get it placed in the right position, just as he wanted it. Artie had a club in his hand that looked rather primitive in design, but nevertheless he felt that it was a weapon of defense at least.
Reaching the precipice cautiously, these two boy scouts made sure they were unheard before they approached the enemy.
Ollie was too busy concentrating his gaze toward the lake and didn’t see or hear them coming.
“Hands up!” Westy commanded authoritatively. “Hand the money over quick or I’ll blow your brains out!” He was now waving the rifle menacingly back and forth between Ollie’s little eyes.
“You mean throw the money up, don’t you, Wes?” Artie said in a very un-official tone.
Westy gave Artie a black look that rather told him how unseemly his remark had been.
“Of course, that’s what I did say!” he lied gallantly to save his face.
“What youse kids trying to do, scare me?” Ollie said in the east-side vernacular and with a show of bravado. “Youse haven’t a chanct in the woild!”