"They don't kill birds, and apparently they do kill cats,"
Terry declared. "MUST be men here. Hark!"
We had heard something: something not in the least like a
birdsong, and very much like a suppressed whisper of laughter
--a little happy sound, instantly smothered. We stood like so
many pointers, and then used our glasses, swiftly, carefully.
"It couldn't have been far off," said Terry excitedly.
"How about this big tree?"
There was a very large and beautiful tree in the glade we had
just entered, with thick wide-spreading branches that sloped out
in lapping fans like a beech or pine. It was trimmed underneath
some twenty feet up, and stood there like a huge umbrella, with
circling seats beneath.
"Look," he pursued. "There are short stumps of branches left
to climb on. There's someone up that tree, I believe."
We stole near, cautiously.
"Look out for a poisoned arrow in your eye," I suggested, but
Terry pressed forward, sprang up on the seat-back, and grasped the trunk.
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