“I suppose you mean that you hunt with a dog?” hazarded Van Cheele.
The boy rolled slowly over on to his back, and laughed a weird low laugh, that was pleasantly like a chuckle and disagreeably like a snarl.
“I don’t fancy any dog would be very anxious for my company, especially at night.”
Van Cheele began to feel that there was something positively uncanny about the strange-eyed, strange-tongued youngster.
“I can’t have you staying in these woods,” he declared authoritatively.
“I fancy you’d rather have me here than in your house,” said the boy.
The prospect of this wild, nude animal in Van Cheele’s primly ordered house was certainly an alarming one.
“If you don’t go. I shall have to make you,” said Van Cheele.
The boy turned like a flash, plunged into the pool, and in a moment had flung his wet and glistening body half-way up the bank where Van Cheele was standing. In an otter the movement would not have been remarkable; in a boy Van Cheele found it sufficiently startling. His foot slipped as he made an involuntarily backward movement, and he found himself almost prostrate on the slippery weed-grown bank, with those tigerish yellow eyes not very far from his own. Almost instinctively he half raised his hand to his throat. They boy laughed again, a laugh in which the snarl had nearly driven out the chuckle, and then, with another of his astonishing lightning movements, plunged out of view into a yielding tangle of weed and fern.
“What an extraordinary wild animal!” said Van Cheele as he picked himself up. And then he recalled Cunningham’s remark “There is a wild beast in your woods.”