Poke didn’t let him finish the sentence. “Ever smell burning feathers? Well, I guess you have, all right! And don’t you think that if we tie a pail to his collar, and there are some burning feathers in the pail, Mr. Dog’ll get enough of chickens to last him a lifetime?”
Step was a generous fellow; he didn’t grudge a friend a triumph.
“Gee, Poke, but you’re a corker! How’d you ever work that out? But I say! I can improve on the pail. Up in our attic’s one of those queer, old-fashioned lanterns with tin sides punched full of holes—like a colander, you know. And there’s a double chain to it—guess they used to hang it up outdoors. And there are snaps on the chain—might have been made for us. Only”—he paused an instant—“only how’re you going to be sure the stuff will burn?”
Poke smiled the smile of easy confidence. “Don’t you worry! A few rags soaked in kerosene, and stuffed in with the feathers will take care of that, all right!”
From this discussion and activities which followed, it happened that when Sam turned a corner near Mr. Mercer’s gate he came upon his two chums engaged in friendly overtures to a large and somewhat suspicious dog. Poke, as he saw, had a tempting bit of meat, while Step held behind him a rusty contrivance of tin, from which loops of still more rusty chain depended.
“Halloo! What’s up?” Sam demanded curiously.
“Oh, first class in dog manners—that’s all,” responded Step lightly.
Poke whistled softly, and held the meat nearer the dog, which took a step forward, halted, eyed the tidbit greedily.
Sam, far from clear as to what was afoot and inclined to caution not only by his new resolves but also by acquaintance with other ventures of his friends, watched the proceedings dubiously.
“I don’t yet grasp what’s the game,” he remarked.