e," the man answered. "They were probably all round you but you
didn't recognize them."

"No, no, it's not possible. I lay here dreaming beneath a tree and there
wasn't a sound, except the twittering of a squirrel and, far away, the
cry of a lake-loon, nothing else."

"Exactly, the twittering of a squirrel! That was some feller up the tree
twittering to beat the band to let on that he was a squirrel, and no
doubt some other feller calling out like a loon over near the lake. I
suppose you gave them the answering cry?"

"I did," I said. "I gave that low guttural note which--"

"Precisely--which is the universal greeting in the freemasonry of animal
speech. I see you've got it all down pat. Well, good-bye again. I'm off.
Oh, don't bother to growl, please. I'm sick of that line of stuff."

"Good-bye," I said.

He slid through the bushes and disappeared. I sat where I was, musing,
my work interrupted, a mood of bitter disillusionment heavy upon me. So
I sat, it may have been for hours.

In the far distance I could hear the faint cry of a bittern in some
lonely marsh.

"Now, who the deuce is making that noise?" I muttered. "Some silly fool,
I suppose, trying to think he's a waterfowl. Cut it out!"

Long I lay, my dream of the woods shattered, wondering what to do.

Then suddenly there came to my ear the loud sound of voices, human
voices, strident and eager, with nothing of the animal growl in them.

"He's in there. I seen him!" I heard some one call.

Rapidly I dived sideways into the underbrush, my animal instinct strong
upon me again, growling as I went. Instinctively I knew that it was I
that they were after. All the animal joy of being hunted came over me.
My union suit stood up on end with mingled fear and rage.

As fast as I could I retreated into the wood. Yet somehow, as I moved,
the wood, instead of growing denser, seemed to thin out. I crouched low,
still growling and endeavouring to bury myself in the thicket. I was
filled with a wild sense of exhilaration such as any lover of the wild
life would feel at the knowledge that he is being chased, that some
one is after him, that some one is perhaps just a few feet behind him,
waiting to stick a pitchfork into him as he runs. There is no ecstasy
like this.

Then I realized that my pursuers had closed in on me. I was surrounded
on all sides.

The woods had somehow grown thin. They were like the mere shrubbery of a
park--it might be of Central Park itse