"Hard luck, after making such a dandy shot," said Dick. "The rascal is close by—we'll chase him out of the bushes. What are you going to do, Bob?"
"Climb the old cypress; I'll find out where he is."
The thick trunk was gnarled, and, by the aid of a low branch, Bob managed to reach a stout limb, bare of foliage. Sitting astride, he worked his way carefully out over the thicket.
A harsh, rasping cry broke the stillness. Almost directly beneath, in a tiny clearing, was the robber, with one paw on the swan. His ears were thrown back, while the yellow eyes glared savagely and his tail switched back and forth.
"I'll make short work of you, old chap," muttered Bob.
He unslung his rifle.
"Just one minute—all right, Dick, he's here. I'll——"
An ominous sound suddenly rang out, the limb shivered and shook, while Bob Somers glanced wildly around. A cry came from his lips.
A crack in the limb had escaped his attention, and it was giving way beneath his weight. His companions' startled exclamations joined in with his own.
"Get over—quick," yelled Dick Travers, in dismay.