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Croaker, mincing in and out among the rag-weeds, led straight across the yard to a tiny ramshackle building which at one time might have been a root-house. Billy, feeling that at any moment an icy hand might reach out and grip his windpipe, followed. It was a terrible risk he was running but the prize was worth it. His feet seemed weighted with lead. At last he reached the root-house and leaned against it, dizzy and panting. Then he looked about for Croaker. The crow had vanished!, "You don't tell me, Willium! Why then, salts is jest what he needs. I'll wake him up an' give 'em to him.", "Well, there's the Proctors, five families of 'em an' every last one of 'em a brother to the other.".