And so Westy’s thoughts rambled on as hurriedly as his feet. He felt that the faster he went the less progress he made and all the while the time was flying.
He figured from the day before how long it would be before he could get there. The middle of the afternoon easy, he reckoned. The sun was at its zenith now and he was mighty hungry. But he didn’t care at that, so long as he brought Rip safely back.
For some reason or other, Westy felt a certain parental superiority toward him, notwithstanding the slight difference in their ages. In short, he had a real responsibility where Rip was concerned.
Away to the right through a space where some trees had been felled, he could see the gray cliffs worn shiny and smooth from Time. “At last,” he thought, “I’m almost there! I hope he don’t fly up when he sees me.”
So for the third time that day Westy whistled the warning of his advance. He slowed down as he gained the broad terrace, before cutting around to the lake.
Approaching with his eyes cast on the ground, he waited to hear Rip’s voice. Sauntering along slowly and kicking the earth with his shoe tip in an offhand manner, his heart leaped within him as he spied something on the mossy ground under a near-by tree.
A small pile of clothes he saw and a pair of scout shoes, giving mute evidence of its owner’s absence. He dared not turn around for fully a minute, so sure was he of seeing nothing living and breathing in the lake.
Then above the droning hum of the haunted lake he heard a faint sound. He strained every nerve to catch it again and raised his eyes to scan the surface of the water.
He started.
On the further side of the lake an enormous tree that had undoubtedly fallen long ago from some cause or other, hung far out over the water, its branches spread on either side and its huge trunk securely wedged on land between the crevices in the stunted cliff.