They paused, and again they heard the faint cry. It was strangely like and yet unlike Roger’s voice. It seemed, as Nat had said, to come from the air above them. An eerie sensation at that hour in the fast-darkening woods.
Tavia felt the hair beginning to creep on her scalp, yet it was she urged Nat on again.
They knew they were coming nearer that voice, for it sounded continually louder in their ears. Yet they still could not locate it.
At last, when they were about ready to give up in despair, Tavia was startled to hear the voice again, and, this time, right over her head.
“I’m up here,” it said quaveringly. “And I can’t hold on much longer. If you don’t give me a hand I’ll fall and break my neck!”
Tavia felt an hysterical desire to laugh. Roger was up in a tree. Of course! How foolish of them not to have thought of that sooner.
Nat, after one eager glance up into the shadowy branches of the tree, had already begun to scale its rough bark.
“Hold on for a minute, old man,” he shouted to the disembodied voice aloft. “I’ll bring you down in a jiffy.”
“But my hand’s slipping,” wailed the voice again. “You’d better hurry, Nat. Oo-oo—I’m gonna fall!”
Alarmed at this prohecy in spite of Nat’s rapid progress toward the rescue, Tavia went close to the tree, straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of the small form hidden among the branches.