“Why not?”

“Snakes!”

“Are you afraid of snakes, Alf?”

“Some kinds.”

“What kinds?”

“Well, rattlers, f’r instance.”

“There are none of that kind on this part of the Indian Smoke Range,” Reade rejoined.  “Come along with me.”

There was something mildly though surely compelling in Tom’s manner.  Alf Drew went along, though he didn’t wish to.  The two were just at the fringe of the thick underbrush when there came a warning sound just ahead of them.

Click! cl-cl-click!

“Whee!  Me for outer this!” gasped Alf, going whiter than ever as he turned.  But Tom caught him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Reade.

Click cl-cl-click!

“There it is again,” cried Alf, in fear.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Tom demanded.

Once more the dread sound smote the air.

“Rattlers!” wailed Drew, perspiring from fear.  “Lemme get away from this.”

“Nonsense!” retorted Reade, retaining a strong clutch on the boy’s shoulder, though once more the sound reached their ears.

“It’s all your nerves, Alf,” Tom insisted.  “You just imagine such things.  That’s what cigarettes do to your nerves.”

“But don’t you hear the rattlesnake?”

“I don’t,” Tom gravely informed him, though once more the nerve-disturbing sound rose clearly on the air.  “See here, Alf, rattlers, whatever their habits, certainly don’t climb trees.  I’ll put you up on that limb.”

Tom’s strong young arms lifted Alf easily until he could clutch at the lowest limb of a tree.

“Climb up there and sit down,” Reade ordered.  Drew sat on the limb, shaking with terror.

“Now, I’ll show you that there isn’t a snake anywhere in that clump of brush,” Tom proposed, and forthwith stepped into the thicket, beating about lustily with his heavy boots.

“L-l-l-look out!” shivered Drew.  “You’ll be bitten!”

“Nonsense, I tell you.  There isn’t a rattler anywhere on this part of the Range.  It’s your nerves, Alf.  Cigarettes are destroying ’em.  There!  I’ve beaten up every bit of this brush and you see that I’ve not been bitten.  Now I’ll help you down to the ground, and you want to get a good, steadying grip on your nerves.”

Alf Drew permitted himself to be helped to the ground.  No sooner, however, had his feet touched the earth than there came that ominous rattling sound.

“There, you big idiot!” howled Alf.  “There it is again!”

“Just your bad nerves, Alf,” Tom smiled.  “They’re so bad that I’ll overlook your lack of respect calling me an idiot!”

“Don’t you s’pose I know rattlers when I hear ’em?” asked Drew, sullenly.  “I was almost bitten by one once, and that’s why I’m so afraid of ’em.”

“I was bitten once,” Tom replied.  “Yet you see that I’m not very nervous about them, especially in a part of the country where none are ever found.  It’s your nerves, Alf—–­and cigarettes!”