"What are they playing?" she whispered. No one answered. I was thinking. Sailor—sixty dollars a month rent—Italian wife—letters from New York.
"I will see," I said, and stepping down I walked across to the stump.
I was fully resolved to sift the matter as far as I could to the bottom. I was aware of the disadvantage of being a small man, for I saw that I should be compelled to climb up to look into the stump. But with small stature is often joined a certain tenacious, terrier-like fortitude. I advanced with firmness.
Ben was nowhere to be seen. Beppo, a stick on his shoulder, stood in a statuesque pose in front of the stump.
"G'way!" he hissed, as I came up.
"What's the game?" I whispered.
"Indians. I'm on guard. G'way!" he whispered back.
"Is this the fort?" I searched for a foothold.
"Yep. This is the middle-watch. What'd you butt in for?"
I scrambled up and looked. Just below me, lying on a soft bed of mouldering tinder wood and leaves, was Benvenuto Cellini Carville, simulating profound slumber. As I clung there, a somewhat undignified figure, he opened one eye.