t, we might be pretty sure it
wouldn't leak out under twenty-four hours. Then, last of all, we were to
make away with all Old Dibs's trunks, packing what clothes he had, and
that into camphor-wood chests, which would occasion no remark, specially
if they were covered over on the top with trade dresses and hats, and
such like.

Old Dibs liked it all tiptop, and, more than anything, Tom's honest,
willing face; but he shied a bit when we walked along to the tree in
question, and looked up sixty feet into the sky, where he was to hang
out on his little raft.

"Good heavens, Riley!" he says, "do you take me for a bird, or what?"

But Tom talked him round, showing how we'd rig a boatswain's chair on a
tackle, and a sort of rustic monkey-rail to keep him from being dizzy,
and had an answer ready for every one of old Dibs's criticisms. Tom and
me, having been seafaring men, couldn't see no trouble about it, and the
only thing to consider serious was how much the platform might show
through the trees, and whether or not the upper boughs were strong
enough to hold. We went up to make sure, straddling out on them, and
bobbing up and down, and choosing a couple of nice forks for where we'd
lay the main cross-piece. Tom tied his handkerchief around a likely
bough, to mark the place for the block and give us a clean hoist from
below, and we both come down very cheerful with the prospect.

Old Dibs seemed less gay about it, and had thought up a lot of fresh
objections; but Tom said there was only one thing to worry about, and
that was whether the whole concern wouldn't show plain against the sky.
We got off a ways to take a look, and very unsatisfying it was, too. A
big, leafy tree seems a mighty solid affair, till you stand off and look
right through it; and Old Dibs was for giving up the idea and trying the
cellar, which was Tom's other notion. But the tree business appealed to
Tom more, and he explained how we'd paint the contraption green, and how
people, when they were walking, never looked up, but ahead; and how
unwholesome a cellar would be, and likely to give Old Dibs the
rheumatics; not to speak of pigs rooting him out, and no air to speak
of.

"Then think of the view," said Tom, who was as happy as a sand boy and
in a bully humor, "and so close to the stars, Mr. Smith, that you can
pick them down for lights to your cigar!"

Old Dibs smiled a sickly smile, like he was unbending to a pair of kids.

"Have it your own wa