The dog drew nearer, and he could feel his hot breath upon his face and hear the dreadful pant. Oh, God! would no one come?
He started half-way up, all on fire. Was not that an answering halloo? or was it the voice which spoke so strangely in the forest?
He had not much time to spare—the horrible dog came nearer with his hot and craving pant—pant, pant. Once more he screamed for help until his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.
“Help! help!”
Ha! that was surely an answer—a halloo. And voices too—voices he knew. Footsteps hurriedly approached, the fires suddenly ceased, and he could hear the dog panting far away. Some one’s hand was laid on his head, a rough voice sounded, confused sounds rung in his ears, and Cato, the Creeper, was unconscious.
When he awoke he was surrounded by a large party of men, who were regarding him angrily and curiously. He did not recognize them, but, remembering his recent peril, partially arose and looked in search of the tree.
It was nowhere in sight. There was the glade and the towering sycamores standing guard over it; there was the very bush he had concealed himself under; but where was the tree?
“How d’ye feel?” asked one of the rough men, kneeling beside him.
“I dunno, mars’r,” he said, sinking down drowsily and closing his eyes.
“Feel better?”