Then he remembered the blow on his back. Had the queer person in the tree-top struck him?... Mr. Crow grew angry.
"Did you hit me?" he called.
"I'm not sure," said the stranger. "But I think I did, for I saw you jump."
"Then you threw something at me!" Mr. Crow screamed.
"Oh, no!" the other replied. "I didn't throw anything at you, sir. I merely dropped something on your back."
Mr. Crow choked. Perhaps it was as well that he could not speak just then. He coughed and spluttered and swallowed and swayed back and forth, trying to get his breath. And he had begun, at last to feel better, when—biff!—something struck him again and all but knocked him over.
The stranger gave a shrill whistle.
"I threw something that time!" he jeered.
Old Mr. Crow felt that he had been terribly insulted. He looked as dignified as he could. And he would have turned his back on the stranger—had he dared.
While he was wondering whether he had better fly away, or stay and quarrel with the rude person who had pelted him, the boorish stranger leaped from the tall tree into the smaller one where Mr. Crow was sitting. Then, dropping nimbly from limb to limb, with the help of his hands and his feet and his tail, he stopped at last when he had reached Mr. Crow's level.