By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says:  “Sam, do you know who my favourite Biblical character is?”

“Take it easy,” says I.  “You’ll come to your senses presently.”

“King Herod,” says he.  “You won’t go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?”

I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled.

“If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight home.  Now, are you going to be good, or not?”

“I was only funning,” says he sullenly.  “I didn’t mean to hurt Old Hank.  But what did he hit me for?  I’ll behave, Snake-eye, if you won’t send me home, and if you’ll let me play the Black Scout to-day.”

“I don’t know the game,” says I.  “That’s for you and Mr. Bill to decide.  He’s your playmate for the day.  I’m going away for a while, on business.  Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once.”

I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit.  Also, I thought it best to send a peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it should be paid.

“You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire and flood—­in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones.  I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid.  He’s got me going.  You won’t leave me long with him, will you, Sam?”

“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I.  “You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return.  And now we’ll write the letter to old Dorset.”

Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave.  Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand.  “I ain’t attempting,” says he, “to decry the celebrated moral aspect of parental affection, but we’re dealing with humans, and it ain’t human for anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk of freckled wildcat.  I’m willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars.  You can charge the difference up to me.”

So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ran this way: 

   Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:

We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit.  It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find him.  Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you are these:  We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box as your reply—­as