“Any danger of his attacking me—up there?”
“Wal, not much. If he hugs the trunk he'll have to hold on fer all he's worth. But if he stands on the branches an' you come up close he might bat you one. Mebbe I'd better go up.”
“Oh, I'm going—I only wanted to know what to expect. Now, in case I get above him, what then?”
“Make him back down till he reaches these first branches. When he gets so far I'll tell you what to do.” I put my arm through the coil of rope, and, slinging it snugly over my shoulder, began to climb the pine. It was the work of only a moment to reach the first branch.
“Wal, I reckon you're some relation to a squirrel at thet,” said Hiram Bent. “Jest as I thought the little cuss is climbin' higher. Thet's goin' to worry us.”
It was like stepping up a ladder from the first branch to the fork. The cub had gone up the right-hand trunk some fifteen feet, and was now hugging it. At that short distance he looked alarmingly big. But I saw he would have all he could do to hold on, and if I could climb the left trunk and get above him there would be little to fear. How I did it so quickly was a mystery, but amid the cracking of dead branches and pattering of falling bark and swaying of the tree-top I gained a position above him.
He was so close that I could smell him. His quick little eyes snapped fire and fear at once; he uttered a sound that was between a whine and a growl.
“Hey, youngster!” yelled Hiram, “thet's high enough—'tain't safe—be careful now.”
With the words I looked out below me, to see the old hunter standing in the glade waving his arms.
“I'm all right!” I yelled down. “Now, how'll I drive him?”