“Oh, that ain’t fair.  He’s older an’ bigger’n I am.”

“Say, Sappy, I’ll give you one.  Suppose you go to the orchard alone an’ get a pail of cherries.  All the men’ll be away at nine o’clock.”

“Yes, and have old Cap chaw me up.”

“Thought you weren’t scared of anything, an’ a poor little Dog smaller than a yearling Heifer scares you.”

“Well, I don’t like cherries, anyhow.”

“Here, now, Guy, I’ll give you a real test.  You see that stone?” and Caleb held up a small round stone with a hole in it.  “Now, you know where old Garney is buried?”

Garney was a dissolute soldier who blew his head off, accidentally, his friends claimed, and he was buried on what was supposed to be his own land just north of Raften’s, but it afterward proved to be part of the highway where a sidepath joined in, and in spite of its diggers the grave was at the crossing of two roads.  Thus by the hand of fate Bill Garney was stamped as a suicide.

The legend was that every time a wagon went over his head he must groan, but unwilling to waste those outcries during the rumbling of the wheels, he waited till midnight and rolled them out all together.  Anyone hearing should make a sympathetic reply or they would surely suffer some dreadful fate.  This was the legend that Caleb called up to memory and made very impressive by being properly impressed himself.

“Now,” said he, “I am going to hide this stone just behind the rock that marks the head of Garney’s grave, an’ I’ll send you to git it some night.  Air ye game?”

“Y-e-s, I’ll go,” said the Third War Chief without visible enthusiasm.

“If he’s so keen for it now, there’ll be no holding him back when night comes,” remarked the Woodpecker.

“Remember, now,” said Caleb, as he left them to return to his own miserable shanty, “this is the chance to show what you’re made of.  I’ll tie a cord to the stone to make sure that you get it.”

“We’re just going to eat.  Won’t you stay and jine with us,” called Sam, but Caleb strode off without taking notice of the invitation.

In the middle of the night the boys were aroused by a man’s voice outside and the scratching of a stick on the canvas.

“Boys!  Guy—­Yan!  Oh, Guy!”

“Hello!  Who is it?”

“Caleb Clark!  Say, Guy, it’s about half-past eleven now.  You have just about time to go to Garney’s grave by midnight an’ get that stone, and if you can’t find the exact spot you listen for the groaning —­that’ll guide you.”

This cheerful information was given in a hoarse whisper that somehow conveyed the idea that the old man was as scared as he could be.

“I—­I—­I—­” stammered Guy, “I can’t see the way.”

“This is the chance of your life, boy.  You get that stone and you’ll get a grand coup feather, top honours fur grit.  I’ll wait here till you come back.”