"I'll show you, Mr. Bob," I muttered, plunging through the brushwood, and setting so fast a pace it was no great while before I realized how faintly their voices came to me.
"Hello-o!" I cried.
"H'lo-o!" came back to me, but from so far behind me I deemed it wiser to stop awhile, awaiting their approach.
The day was glorious, but quiet for a boy. The world was nodding in its long, midsummer nap, and no birds sang, no squirrels chattered. I looked in vain for one; but there were berries and the mottled fruit of an antique apple-tree to while the time away—and so I waited.
I remember chuckling as I nibbled there, wondering what Mr. Bob would say of those short legs which had outstripped him. I fancied him coming up red and breathless to find me calmly eating and whistling between bites—and I did whistle when I thought them near enough. I whistled "Dixie" till I lost the pucker, thinking what fun it was, and tried again, but could not keep the tune for chuckling. And so I waited—and then I listened—but all the wood was still.
"Hello-o!" I cried.
There was no answer.
"Hello-o!" I called again, but still heard nothing in reply save my own echo.
"Hello-o!" I shouted. "Hello-o!" till the wood rang, and then they answered:
"H'lo-o!" but as faint and distant as before.