"That don't make no diff'rence." One of the Margate twins stepped from
a thicket and confronted Homer Phelps on the old wood-road. The
majestic scowl of official wrath was upon the brow of Reeves Margate,
a long stick was held in the hollow of his arm as one would hold a
rifle, and he strode grimly to the other boy. "That don't make no
diff'rence. You've got to answer when I holler, anyhow. Willie says
so."
At the mention of the dread chieftain's name the Phelps boy daunted a
trifle, but he still sulkily murmured, "Well, you knew it was me."
He started on his way through the snow, but the twin sturdily blocked
the path. "You can't pass less'n you give the countersign."
"Huh?" said the Phelps boy. "Countersign?"
"Yes--countersign," sneered the twin, strong in his sense of virtue.
But the Phelps boy became very angry. "Can't I, hey? Can't I, hey?
I'll show you whether I can or not! I'll show you, Reeves Margate!"
There was a short scuffle, and then arose the anguished clamor of the
sentry: "Hey, fellers! Here's a man tryin' to run a-past the guard.
Hey, fellers! Hey!"
There was a great noise in the adjacent underbrush. The voice of
Willie could be heard exhorting his followers to charge swiftly and
bravely. Then they appeared--Willie Dalzel, Jimmie Trescott, the other
Margate twin, and Dan Earl. The chieftain's face was dark with wrath.
"What's the matter? Can't you play it right? 'Ain't you got any
sense?" he asked the Phelps boy.
The sentry was yelling out his grievance. "Now--he came along an' I
hollered at 'im, an' he didn't pay no 'tention, an' when I ast 'im for
the countersign, he wouldn't say nothin'. That ain't no way."
"Can't you play it right?" asked the chief again, with gloomy scorn.
"He knew it was me easy enough," said the Phelps boy.
"That 'ain't got nothin' to do with it," cried the chief, furiously.
"That 'ain't got nothin' to do with it. If you're goin' to play,
you've got to play it right. It ain't no fun if you go spoilin' the
whole thing this way. Can't you play it right?"
"I forgot the countersign," lied the culprit, weakly.
Whereupon the remainder of the band yelled out, with one triumphant
voice: "War to the knife! War to the knife! I remember it, Willie.
Don't I, Willie?"
The leader was puzzled. Evidently he was trying to develop in his mind
a plan for dealing correctly with this unusual incident. He felt, no
doubt, that he must proceed according to the books, but unfortunately
the books did not cover the point precisely. However, he finally said
to Homer Phelps, "You are under arrest." Then with a stentorian voice
he shouted, "Seize him!"
His loyal followers looked startled for a brief moment, but directly
they began to move upon the Phelps boy. The latter clearly did not
intend to be seized. He backed away, expostulating wildly. He even
seemed somewhat frightened. "No, no; don't you touch me, I tell you;
don't you dare touch me."
The others did not seem anxious to engage. They moved slowly, watching
the desperate light in his eyes. The chieftain stood with folded arms,
his face growing darker and darker with impatience. At length he burst
out: "Oh, seize him, I tell you! Why don't you seize him? Grab him by
the leg, Dannie! Hurry up, all of you! Seize him, I keep a-say-in'!"
Thus adjured, the Margate twins and Dan Earl made another pained
effort, while Jimmie Trescott manoeuvred to cut off a retreat. But,
to tell the truth, there was a boyish law which held them back from
laying hands of violence upon little Phelps under these conditions.
Perhaps it was because they were only playing, whereas he was now
undeniably serious. At any rate, they looked very sick of their
occupation.
"Don't you dare!" snarled the Phelps boy, facing first one and then
the other; he was almost in tears--"don't you dare touch me!"
The chieftain was now hopping with exasperation. "Oh, seize him, can't
you? You're no good at all!" Then he loosed his wrath upon the Phelps
boy: "Stand still, Homer, can't you? You've got to be seized, you
know. That ain't the way. It ain't any fun if you keep a-dodgin' that
way. Stand still, can't you! You've got to be seized."
"I don't _want_ to be seized," retorted the Phelps boy, obstinate and
bitter.
"But you've _got_ to be seized!" yelled the maddened chief. "Don't you
see? That's the way to play it."
The Phelps boy answered, promptly, "But I don't want to play that
way."
"But that's the _right_ way to play it. Don't you see? You've got to
play it the right way. You've got to be seized, an' then we'll hold a
trial on you, an'--an' all sorts of things."
But this prospect held no illusions for the Phelps boy. He continued
doggedly to repeat, "I don't want to play that way!"
Of course in the end the chief stooped to beg and beseech this
unreasonable lad. "Oh, come on, Homer! Don't be so mean. You're
a-spoilin' everything. We won't hurt you any. Not the tintiest bit.
It's all just playin'. What's the matter with you?"
The different tone of the leader made an immediate impression upon the
other. He showed some signs of the beginning of weakness. "Well," he
asked, "what you goin' to do?"
"Why, first we're goin' to put you in a dungeon, or tie you to a
stake, or something like that--just pertend, you know," added the
chief, hurriedly, "an' then we'll hold a trial, awful solemn, but
there won't be anything what'll hurt you. Not a thing."
[Illustration: "FROM THIS BOOT HE EMPTIED ABOUT A QUART OF SNOW"]
And so the game was readjusted. The Phelps boy was marched off between
Dan Earl and a Margate twin. The party proceeded to their camp, which
was hidden some hundred feet back in the thickets. There was a
miserable little hut with a pine-bark roof, which so frankly and
constantly leaked that existence in the open air was always
preferable. At present it was noisily dripping melted snow into the
black mouldy interior. In front of this hut a feeble fire was
flickering through its unhappy career. Underfoot, the watery snow was
of the color of lead.
The party having arrived at the camp, the chief leaned against a tree,
and balancing on one foot, drew off a rubber boot. From this boot he
emptied about a quart of snow. He squeezed his stocking, which had a
hole from which protruded a lobster-red toe. He resumed his boot.
"Bring up the prisoner," said he. They did it. "Guilty or not guilty?"
he asked.
"Huh?" said the Phelps boy.
"Guilty or not guilty?" demanded the chief, peremptorily. "Guilty or
not guilty? Don't you understand?"
Homer Phelps looked profoundly puzzled. "Guilty or not guilty?" he
asked, slowly and weakly.
The chief made a swift gesture, and turned in despair to the others.
"Oh, he don't do it right! He does it all wrong!" He again faced the
prisoner with an air of making a last attempt, "Now look-a-here,
Homer, when I say, 'Guilty or not guilty?' you want to up an' say,
'Not Guilty.' Don't you see?"
"Not guilty," said Homer, at once.
"No, no, no. Wait till I ask you. Now wait." He called out, pompously,
"Pards, if this prisoner before us is guilty, what shall be his fate?"
All those well-trained little infants with one voice sung out,
"_Death!_"
"Prisoner," continued the chief, "are you guilty or not guilty?"
"But look-a-here," argued Homer, "you said it wouldn't be nothin' that
would hurt. I--"
"Thunder an' lightnin'!" roared the wretched chief. "Keep your mouth
shut, can't ye? What in the mischief--"
But there was an interruption from Jimmie Trescott, who shouldered a
twin aside and stepped to the front. "Here," he said, very
contemptuously, "let me be the prisoner. I'll show 'im how to do it."
"All right, Jim," cried the chief, delighted; "you be the prisoner,
then. Now all you fellers with guns stand there in a row! Get out of
the way, Homer!" He cleared his throat, and addressed Jimmie.
"Prisoner, are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," answered Jimmie, firmly. Standing there before his
judge--unarmed, slim, quiet, modest--he was ideal.
The chief beamed upon him, and looked aside to cast a triumphant and
withering glance upon Homer Phelps. He said: "There! That's the way to
do it."
The twins and Dan Earl also much admired Jimmie.
"That's all right so far, anyhow," said the satisfied chief. "An' now
we'll--now we'll--we'll perceed with the execution."
"That ain't right," said the new prisoner, suddenly. "That ain't the
next thing. You've got to have a trial first. You've got to fetch up a
lot of people first who'll say I done it."
"That's so," said the chief. "I didn't think. Here, Reeves, you be
first witness. Did the prisoner do it?"
The twin gulped for a moment in his anxiety to make the proper reply.
He was at the point where the roads forked. Finally he hazarded,
"Yes."
"There," said the chief, "that's one of 'em. Now, Dan, you be a
witness. Did he do it?"
Dan Earl, having before him the twin's example, did not hesitate.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, then, pards, what shall be his fate?"