“All—the funny little noises!” rippled on the nervous tenderfoot, who now felt a Meg-many-foot, or half-a-dozen of them—clammy centipedes—crawling down her back, not silver-footed, either. “And the low boughs, swinging, they look like people! The birds—listen—they’re so restless, aren’t they—sleep restlessly! Oh-h, de-ar! what’s—that? What, ever, is that?”
It was the sharp, slicing “Whit-whit-whir-r!” of a night hawk’s wings. It was a frenzied, torn little “Cheep! Cheep!” with the momentary flutter of a tiny body—two dark bodies—in mid-air; a fidgetty bird scared out of the nest by the hawk’s proximity and caught in the night hawk’s talons.
Una bewailed the nocturnal tragedy, sobbing softly.
But this was the fiery stick of reality waving luridly across the cinematograph of worked-up sensations—she ceased creating worry-cows.
Girls really steadied down now, settling to sleep, only arousing, once in a while, to chase a stone from under an inquisitive elbow or hip, where they had flattered themselves the bedding-ground was perfectly clear.
And so it drew on towards the plaintive stillness of the wee hour, one o’clock, when, midnight past, the lusty Night seems to shake its dark tresses and settle down for a breathing spell, too, before morn-blink.
Pemrose was awake. She had been dreaming of the radio ring; that with her heel in the fostering wet, it had added to its magic the gift of transporting her—and she was back in the laboratory with her inventive father. She had let one of his rare quartz tuning forks fall and had broken it.
She awoke to the wee ’oor ... and the rattle of a chain.
“I—I m-mustn’t wake Una—at any cost. What is it—where is it?... It must be after midnight—now.”
Pemrose Lorry raised her cheek stealthily from the poncho-pillow. Talk of “wuzziness” now! Her skin began to ooze at every pore, chilly as the dew around.