"Don't flurry him," said Sumichrast; "he'll need all his presence of mind to get the boy down safely."
With an anxiety which may be easily understood, I watched all the movements of the lad, who was every now and then concealed by the leaves.
"Gently," cried l'Encuerado; "put your foot there. Well done! Now lay hold of this branch and slide down. Don't be afraid; I'll not let you go. How pleased and proud your papa will be when he knows how high you have climbed!"
The Indian was wrong; I was neither pleased nor proud. The trunk of the tree was five or six feet in circumference; the first branches sprang at a point no less than seven to ten feet from the ground, and I could not make out how the boy managed to reach them. As for l'Encuerado, or rather the ape that went by that name, I knew that no obstacle could stop him.
I must, however, confess that I felt all my anger melting away when I saw the skill and coolness of the young acrobat. Certainly, Sumichrast appealed to my own reminiscences, and offered to lay me a wager that I had climbed many a poplar without the advantage of such superintendence as l'Encuerado's. At last the two gymnasts reached the lowest branches, and I breathed more freely.
"Papa," cried the child, "we climbed right to the top, and there found a nest and a squirrel's hiding-place."
"Have you suddenly gone mad?" said I, interrupting him and addressing the Indian.
"Mad!" repeated he, with the most sublime simplicity. "Why?"
"Couldn't you have chosen a tree that was not so tall?"
"Don't you wish Chanito to learn to climb? At all events, the señora intrusted him to me."