"Come down, do you hear?" I commanded.

   "Not until he does," he replied with a laugh.

   I called again. Jerry didn't reply, for just then there was a sudden shaking of the dry leaves above me, the creaking of a bough and the snarl of a wild animal, and the sound of a blow.

   "Jerry!" I cried. No reply, but the sound of the struggle overhead increased, dreadful sounds of snarling and of scratching, but no sound of Jerry. Fearful of imminent tragedy, I climbed quickly, amid the uproar of the dogs, and, knife in hand, had got my feet an the lower branches, when a heavy weight shot by me and fell to the ground. Thank God, not the boy!

   "Jerry!" I cried again, clambering upward.

   "A-all r-right, Mr. Canby," I heard. "You're safe, not hurt?"

   "I'm all right, I think. Just—just scratched."

   By this time I had reached him. He was braced in the crotch of a limb, leaning against the tree trunk still holding his hunting knife. His coat was wet and I guessed at rather than saw the pallor of his face Below were the sounds of the dogs worrying at the animal.

   "I—I guess they've finished him," said Jerry coolly sheathing his knife.

   "It's lucky he didn't finish

    you

   ," I muttered. "You're sure you're not hurt?"

   "Oh, no."

   "Can you get down alone?"

   "Yes, of course."

   But I helped him down, nevertheless, and he reached the ground in safety, where I saw that his face at least had escaped damage. But the sleeve of his coat was torn to ribbons, and the blood was dripping from his finger ends.

   "Come," I said, taking his arm, "we'll have to get you attended to." And then severely: "You disobeyed me, Jerry. Why didn't you come down?"

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