The house was about a hundred feet away, and between me and it was a fairly large maple tree. Back at my right, a little nearer the fence than the house, was the icehouse where we got caught the day before. From where I was I could see the dinner-bell that had helped us out. Back of that a little was the woodshed, and way at the far corner of the lot was the barn and the corn-crib. There was smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney, but nobody was out in the yard or anywhere in sight.
I figured it out that the thing for me to do would be to run across the yard as fast as I could, look in the window and dash back again over the fence. If I was quick enough nobody’d see me, and it wouldn’t give the dog a chance to smell me either. So I threw my leg over the top rail and let myself down inside. Then I sprinted toward the big tree which was between me and the window I wanted to look into. I wasn’t more than halfway to the tree before I heard the front door open, and somebody came out on the porch. I couldn’t see them yet, but I daren’t take any chances of their coming around into the side yard where I was. I just jumped for the tree and grabbed the lower limb. It didn’t take me a second to swing myself up among the branches, and the leaves were so thick that I knew I was safe if that dog didn’t come nosing around.
I felt in my pocket for my sling-shot, thinking maybe if the dog did come I could fix it so he wouldn’t want to stay where I was very bad. By luck the sling-shot was there and a couple of dozen good pebbles. I tell you I was pretty thankful.
It was lucky I went up the tree, for I heard steps coming toward my end of the front porch, and then there stood Henry C. Batten in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a big cigar.
He stepped down off the porch and whistled. I didn’t like that whistle a bit, because it meant I’d have the dog sniffing around that part of the place, and I’d much rather he’d stay where he was. But he came galloping up from the barn, and Henry C. Batten stood there and patted his head and scratched his back. Then he picked up a stick and threw it right my way for the dog to fetch. Over he came, licketty split, but I guess he was so busy with his game that he didn’t notice me. The man kept him running back and forth quite a while till he got tired of it; then he and the dog began to stroll around the yard. They walked all around until they came to my tree, and then what did Henry C. Batten do but sit right down on the grass in the shade and light another cigar, as if he was going to stay there the rest of the afternoon.
I would have given my jack-knife to have been anywhere else but right there. The leaves were good and thick, and the chances were against Batten seeing me, but, all the same, he might see me, or the dog might smell me, and then where would I be?
I kept pretty still, you can bet, and held my breath so that wouldn’t make any sound. It was all right for a little while, but just you sit all doubled up in the crotch of a tree without moving even a finger and see how long you like it. I got a cramp in my leg, and my back ached, and my arms got tired. I never was so uncomfortable in my life. The cramp in my leg kept getting worse and worse, and there isn’t anything I know of that hurts so much as a good big cramp just above the knee. I thought I’d have to holler right out. Finally I couldn’t stand it any more. I had to straighten out that leg and get rid of the cramp—that was all there was to it, I had to. So I did. It made a little rustle in the leaves, and my heart came up in my mouth so I could have bit it. Henry C. Batten looked up, but, thank goodness, he couldn’t see me. The dog looked up, too, and began to walk around the tree and sniff. It was just what I had been afraid of all the time. Then he began to bark.
“What’s up there, old fellow?” Henry C. Batten says. “Is it a bird?”
The dog kept on barking. Batten got up and looked around for a stick. When he found one he stepped off a piece and threw it up into the tree, and out flew a big bird with a lot of fuss and flutter. I never was so much obliged to a bird in my life.
“There he goes,” says Batten to the dog; and then he walked off toward the house again. But the dog kept on hanging around my tree. Batten turned and whistled to him, and after a couple of times he went along, but even then he kept looking back and growling. It’s a wonder Batten didn’t suspect something.