"He's slept long enough, I reckon," declared the brown man. "Let's have
a look at him. Hey, kid!"

Cold Feet quivered, but seemed lost in a profound sleep. Cartwright
reached for a small stone and juggled it in the palm of his hand.

"This'll surprise him," he chuckled.

"Better not," murmured Sinclair.

"Why not?"

"Might land on his face and hurt him."

"It won't hurt him bad. Besides, kids ought to learn not to sleep in
the daytime. Ain't a good idea any way you look at it. Puts fog in the
head."

He poised the stone.

"You might hit his eye, you see," said Sinclair.

"Leave that to me!"

But, as his arm twisted back for the throw, the hand of Sinclair
flashed out and lean fingers crushed the wrist of Cartwright. Yet
Sinclair's voice was still soft.

"Better not," he said.