No, he was quite alone. Only a thrush, singing musically, near by; and from beyond, the solemn, never-ceasing murmur of the pines.
With slow and careful movements, taking care not to disturb the loose rocks or soil in the cavity, the boy turned and thrust his arm into a narrow cleft that had been concealed by a clump of ferns.
When he drew back his hand, something bright gleamed in it. It was round, and shone gayly in an innocent bit of sunlight that came flickering down through the tree-tops. It was talking to itself, too, in a very busy and wise little way, as Tom satisfied himself at once, holding it to his ear and listening anxiously.
What would Pet have thought, as she whirled along in the North-bound express from Boston that fair morning, could she have seen Tom crouching on the shadowy ledge, trembling at every sound in the forest, pale and frightened, clasping in his hand—her lost watch? Poor Tom!
CHAPTER IX.
A MOUNTAIN CAMP.
“I SHOULD like to know,” said Pet breathlessly, as she clambered up the steep slope of Saddleback, a day or two after her return to The Pines, “whether there really is any top to this hill! Where was the birch you set on fire, Bess?”
The party paused a minute beside the path, to rest and get breath.
“O, ever so far from here, away over on the Readville side of the mountain.”
“It spiles the looks of the tree,” observed Ruel, leaning on his axe, “or I’d start one for ye naow. Leaves ’em all black, an’ sometimes kills ’em, right aout—not to say anything ’bout settin’ the rest o’ the woods on fire.”
“What sort of a birch is that, over by that rock, uncle Will?” asked Randolph.