Nothing.
How this stuff rustled under the feet! In woods at twilight, with innumerable things darting from trees and eyes watching you everywhere, it would be pleasanter if one could walk without making quite such a row. Presently, surely, Bealby told himself, he would come out on a high road and meet other people and say “good-night” as they passed. Jolly other people they would be, answering, “Good-night.” He was now going at a moistening trot. It was getting darker and he stumbled against things.
When you tumble down wolves leap. Not of course that there are any wolves.
It was stupid to keep thinking of wolves in this way. Think of something else. Think of things beginning with a B. Beautiful things, boys, beads, butterflies, bears. The mind stuck at bears. Are there such things as long grey bears? Ugh! Almost endless, noiseless bears?...
It grew darker until at last the trees were black. The night was swallowing up the flying Bealby and he had a preposterous persuasion that it had teeth and would begin at the back of his legs....
§ 2
“Hi!” cried Bealby weakly, hailing the glow of the fire out of the darkness of the woods above.
The man by the fire peered at the sound; he had been listening to the stumbling footsteps for some time, and he answered nothing.
In another minute Bealby had struggled through the hedge into the visible world and stood regarding the man by the fire. The phantom wolves had fled beyond Sirius. But Bealby’s face was pale still from the terrors of the pursuit and altogether he looked a smallish sort of small boy.
“Lost?” said the man by the fire.