one day—two—t'ree, bye 'n' bye eet git 'ongre an' com' out, den mebbe-so we ketch um."
"But if it's a tamahnawus it won't get hungry," grinned Connie, "and it won't come out."
Ick Far shrugged: "Heap skookum, li'l p'lice. But eef eet's tamahnawus een dere, you no com' out neider."
Connie considered the man's words. To tell the truth, the boy had no liking for the task, and the plan of Ick Far sounded reasonable. For a moment he considered adopting it, then, turning once more to the opening, shook his head. "If I don't go in," he muttered, "it's because I'm a coward! Even if we did stick around until the thing came out, I'd always know that I'd run up against something I was afraid to do! And I'm more afraid of that, of the nights and the days I'd spend thinking about it, than I am of anything that could squeeze through that three-cornered hole. Besides, my dad never tackled anything, he didn't see through, and I won't either. If a fellow funks once it would always be easy to do it again, but if he kind of—kind of cleans up as he goes, he can keep on believing in himself. I'd rather go in and not come out than not go in at all!"
