CHAPTER XXVII—HELP
As the scarf came slowly off, Westy gazed with awe and admiration at this ferocious, yet magnificent bird that he held within the hollow of his left arm. Tenderly he placed it down on the soft warm earth. Instantly an expression of perplexity, then amazement, appeared on his face. He stared and then bent closer.
Could it be possible, he thought? That he, Westy Martin, had so deceived himself and was so stupid as to hold the creature all this while and not know it?
“Why,” he said aloud now, “I could swear I felt his heart beating!”
Then the light of reason dawned in his bewildered mind. It must have been his own heart palpitating with excitement and the exertion of running. Hadn’t he held the bird close to his left breast? Of course!
“Well!” he spoke softly now, but with exasperation. “I’m the original dumb-bell! It probably was dead when Artie handed it to me! It’s stone cold now! Can you beat it? And all this for nothing! As usual, poor Artie’s the goat!” he murmured regretfully, looking up toward the imprisoned boy hopefully for some further sign from him.
There was none, for Artie wisely kept himself well within the enclosure, as the two eagles were now perched menacingly on the edge of the precipice.
“Can it be,” thought Westy, “that they are already scenting their young one to where he had fallen?”
He felt suddenly panic-stricken as the birds, now screeching and fluttering back and forth over the cliff, seemed to be threatening something. He wondered if he should run back up there and try to fight off the birds. But the futility of the thought became apparent, when he remembered the missing rope and realized how utterly impossible it would be for him to try and fight those two enormous birds single handed. As yet, they did not seem to be aware of any intruder in their midst, so Westy decided the only course, and perhaps the wisest one, was to run back to the cabin for Uncle Jeb, while there was yet time. He figured that Artie, with luck on his side, could manage for a while at least to keep in concealment.
It would be a race against odds; but nevertheless the chance would have to be taken.