"Fluke, Fluke, wake up! It's Flea!"

Flukey made no movement to dislodge his tightly pressed lips from the
trembling fingers. The gray eyes flashed open; but the lad lay perfectly
still.

"Fluke," breathed Flea, "I'm goin' to the cave. Slip on yer pants, and
don't wake Granny Cronk nor Pappy Lon!"

If it had not been that the boy pressed his fingers on the blanket, Flea
would have wondered if her brother had heard.

The lithe form had crept back to the ladder and had disappeared before
Flukey slipped quietly from his bed and drew on the blue-jeans overalls.
As he stole through the kitchen, he could hear the snorts of Granny
Cronk coming from the back room. The outside door stood partly open, and
without hesitation he passed through and closed it after him that the
wind might not slam it. Then he limped along under the shore trees, up a
little hill, and dropped out of sight into an open cavern, where Flea, a
candle in her hand, sat in semidarkness.

The cave had been the children's playground ever since they could
remember. Here they had come to weep over indignities heaped upon them
in childhood; here they had come in joy and in sorrow, and now, in
secret conclave in the early hours of the morning, they had come again.

"Ye're here!" said Flea in feverish haste. "I feared ye'd go to sleep
again."

"Nope; I allers come when ye want me, Flea."