"I believe he thinks we are a pack of wolves," said Mr. Warren.
"That's it, Mr. Warren, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, turning to the assayer. "That's it, entirely. He heard a wolf howl last night, and it was hard wor-rk I had to kape him from jumping out of his bed and running off right thin. He thinks it's a pack of them that's hunting him."
"Poor fellow! No wonder he refuses to come down. What are we going to do? We must get him out."
Then ensued an eager debate, in which everybody took a share except Uncle Tom and myself, who, standing a little apart from the rest on the sloping bank of the stream, were listening and looking on, when some one touched me on my arm, and a boyish voice said:
"What's the matter? What's it all about?"
Turning round, I saw before me a tall young fellow about my own age, with reddish hair, very keen gray eyes and a much-freckled face, carrying in one hand an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, nearly as long as himself, and in the other three grouse which he appeared to have shot.
Wondering who the boy might be, I explained the situation, when he cried:
"What! Tim Donovan! Why he'll die if he's left in there. Poor chap! We must get him out."
"Yes," said Uncle Tom. "That's just it. But how? The man won't be persuaded to come out, and no one can get in to drag him out—so what's to be done?"
The young fellow stood for a minute thinking, and then, suddenly lifting his head, he exclaimed, with a half laugh: