It
was a chilly night, with gusts of wind from the northwest. We laid the
axe where it would be at hand in case of need; and Tom trained the gun
across the fence rail in the direction of the knoll.
"Like's not he won't come till toward morning," he whispered; "but we
must stay awake and keep listening for him. Don't you go to sleep."
I thought that sleep was the last thing I was likely to be guilty of. I
wished myself at home. The tales I had heard of the voracity and
fierceness of the striped catamount were made much more terrible by the
darkness. My position was so cramped and the old sleigh so hard that I
had to squirm occasionally; but every time I did so, Tom whispered:
"Sh! Don't rattle round. He may hear us."
An hour or two, which seemed ages long, dragged by; the crescent moon
sank behind the tree-tops and die night darkened. At last, in spite of
myself, I grew drowsy, but every few moments I started broad awake and
clutched the handle of the axe. Several times Tom whispered:
"I believe you're asleep."
"I'm not!" I protested.
"Well, you jump as if you were," he retorted.
By and by Tom himself started spasmodically, and I accused him of having
slept; but he denied it in a most positive whisper.
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