“That’s too many turns, I never could remember more than two.”
“Now, listen,” he said persuasively. “I can make it quite plain to you if—”
“I don’t wish to listen! I’ll never find it.”
“I’ll toss you up my compass.”
“I don’t want your compass,” she said firmly.
A long patient sigh exhaled from below.
“Do you want me to guide you?”
“No,” she retorted, and was instantly panic-stricken, for the monosyllable was of that accent which sets fire to bridges and burns them beyond hope of return.
Slowly she got to her feet. Perhaps she would have dared and gone; perhaps she would have swallowed pride and her negative, and made one more appeal. She turned hesitantly and saw the devil.
It was a small devil on stilts, not more than three or four inches tall, but there was no mistaking his identity. No other living thing could possess such demoniac little red-hot pin points of eyes, or be so bristly and grisly and vicious. The stilts suddenly folded flat, and the devil rushed upon his prey. The girl stepped back; her foot turned and caught, and—