The Seven looked important at that. Indian opened the round little saucers which did him for a frightened pair of eyes and leaned forward to listen. Master Chauncey Van Rensselaer Mount-Bonsall bowed with dignity; and Methusalem Zebediah Chilvers, farmer and populist from Kansas, who had been lounging as usual at the back of the tent, opened one eye and waited.
Having thus obtained attention, Mark began:
“Texas observed,” he said, “that Bull would try that trick of raising a row while we were out of camp at night once too often. Now that’s a fact; he may. And you know as well as I do that to be caught outside of the sentry lines at night would mean court-martial and dismissal for every one of us. I’m beginning to think that it’s hardly worth the risk. You know how Bull hates us; our cutting up as we did last night is lots of fun, but it only gives him a weapon to hurt us with. It——”
“Say, look a yere,” cried Texas at this stage of the game. “Do you mean to say that you’re drivin’ at advisin’ us to stay in camp every night?”
“Yes,” said Mark, “I am.”
“Well, I jes’ tell you I ain’t,” growled Texas. “No, sah, I ain’t! Why, what fun would there be? Life wouldn’t be worth livin’! I won’t do it!”
“You might lick Bull Harris instead,” laughed Mark. “That would be exciting.”
Texas admitted that that was a mitigating circumstance.
“You see,” Mark continued, “we’re safe if we stop now. Allen hasn’t the least idea that we’ve been cutting up, and none of Bull’s gang dare tell him, because, you see, they were out of camp, too. And I think we’ve gone far enough for a while. I don’t want any more such scares as I had last night.”
“Me neither,” wailed Indian. “Bless my soul!”