“And the Cap of Thought—was that with it?”
“No, I’m glad to say. That’s in my bottom bureau drawer.”
Wendell waited for no more. He tiptoed out and ran lightly upstairs. Now, which room was it? This front one, of course. He opened the lowest drawer of the bureau. Yes, there it lay, a little filmy cap of indescribable color.
The front door banged suddenly. Wendell picked up the cap and tiptoed into the hall and looked over the banisters. Ah! but he was thankful then for the Cloak of Darkness. For there stood the Giant. And while Wendell watched him, fascinated and secure, the Giant’s huge nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s, he sniffed, and then roared out,
“Fee, fi, fo, fum! I smell the blood—no, I won’t be quiet!—of an Englishman. Be he alive—well, your cook’s gone, isn’t she? she can’t be any goner!—or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones—hold on! it smells just like that boy that was here yesterday. Where is he?” He bellowed out the question.
This roused tremendous excitement in the family. Both women talked at once:—“the little wretch!”—“positive he stole my Cloak”—“got away invisible”—“shan’t get away this time”—“Lock the doors, mummer!”—“but we can’t see him”—“I’ll soon sniff him out”—this last from the Giant.
Wendell stood transfixed at the head of the stairs, clutching the Cap. Did he dare descend? No, for the Giant growled out, “He’s upstairs, all right,” and started up the flight. Wendell fled before him and turned back into the front bedroom, the Giant sniffing close at his heels.
There was an open window in the room, but Wendell dared not risk a jump from the second story. There ran rapidly through his mind all the expedients that he could remember, from his reading of wild animal books, for throwing the hunter off the trail of the quarry. If he could double on his track,—but the track was too short. If he could climb to a height and break the scent by leaping off,—but the chiffonier was the highest thing in sight. If he could follow a stream of running water. He wondered whether there was anything to gain by making a dash for the bathroom. The Giant had adopted a horribly sure method. Crouching at the height of a boy, with hands outstretched to touch the wall on either side, he advanced slowly across the room. Wendell stood at bay in a corner, helpless, desperate, but still game.
Just then the telephone rang. The Giant paused to say, “If that’s for me, I can’t be bothered now. Take the number and say I’ll call ’em later,” and that one moment of interruption gave Wendell a chance to duck under the mighty monster’s arm and seek refuge in the other corner behind his back. But he knew that his respite was but momentary. Although the Ugly Stepsister had gone to answer the telephone, the Witch still blocked the door, and as the Giant reached the other wall fruitlessly, he sniffed intently and once more started across the room. Wendell felt sure that he stood face to face with his last moment of life. He jammed the Cap on his head to leave both hands free, drew out and opened his jackknife and prepared to sell his life dearly.
