“Vamoose!” I whispers. “Get a-going. We don’t want no lynching in
Paradise on the Fourth of July.”
“But, Henry—” squeaks Scenery.
“No time for argument!” I snaps. “You’ll find out later. Go fast and
far. Sabe?”
“I’ll make this right with you, Henry,” says the old man,
earnest-like, and I nods in the dark and says to myself—
“You’ll likely try.”
They slips out together, and in about a minute I hears Chuck come up
to the door, and he seems peevish over something.
“Hen!” he whispers. “Aw, Hen! Henry Peck!”