“Hark! there’s Pan,” said Mark.
As they came near the island, Pan either scented them or heard a splashing, for he set up his bark again. He had choked himself silent before.
“Pan! Pan!” shouted Bevis, whistling.
Yow—wow—wow!
“Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!”
They ran up on the shore of New Formosa, and began to dance and caper, kicking up their heels.
Yow-wow—wow-wow!
“Pan! I’m coming,” said Bevis, and began to run, but stopped suddenly.
Thistles in the grass and trailing briars stayed him. He put on his wet boots, and then picking his way round, reached the hut. He let Pan loose. The spaniel crouched at his feet and whimpered, and followed him, crawling on the ground. Bevis patted him, but he could not leap up as usual, the desertion had quite broken his spirit for the time. Bevis went into the hut, and just as he was, with nothing on but his boots, took his journal and wrote down “Wednesday.”