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Billy's hand went down into his trouser's pocket. "Look," he comforted, "I've got my rabbit-foot charm, an' I'm goin' to draw a magic circle 'round the stump you're settin' on. No snakes, owl, ner even old Scroggie's ghost kin get inside that circle." "Why I read it in Anson's book, 'Trigger-Finger Tim er Dead er Alive.' Oh, it's all hunky, I tell you." Billy shook his head. "I've got a skiff to paint 'fore three o'clock this afternoon," he said, "so I best get busy. Tell Erie not to ferget to blow the fog-horn when the ducks are done.".

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The slender sensitive fingers of the specialist lifted the lids of the unseeing eyes. Intently he examined them, then with a quick smile that transformed his grave face to almost boyish gladness, he spoke. A moment later the "swowee" of the cutting wings sounded, close in, and the old gun spoke twice. "Harry!" gasped Billy, "Harry O'Dule!" Keeler paused, and sighed deeply. "'Course, sir, you've heerd what happened an' how? He was tryin' to save some horses from a burnin' stable. A blazin' beam fell across his face; his eyes they—" Keeler's voice grew husky..