"Talk about your barbed wire entanglements," he called. Then, after a
minute, "This little codger lives in a swing," he shouted; "I should
think she'd get dizzy. No accounting for tastes, hey? Whoa--boy! There's
where I nearly took a double-header. If I should fall now, I wouldn't
have so far to go."
"You won't fall," said Tom with a note of admiring confidence in his
brief remark.
"Better knock wood," came the cheery answer from above.
And presently his trim, agile form stood upon the lowest stalwart limb,
as he balanced himself with one hand against the trunk. His khaki jacket
was in shreds, a great rent was in his sleeve, and a tear in one of his
stockings showed a long bloody scratch beneath. In his free hand he held
the piece of branch with its depending nest, extending his arm out so as
to keep the rescued trophy safe from any harm of contact.
"Some rags, hey?" he called down good-humoredly, and exposing his figure
in grotesque attitude for sober Tom's amusement. "If mother could only
see me now! Get out from under while I swing down. Back to terra
cotta--I mean firma. Here goes----"
Down he came, tumbling forward, and sprawling on the ground, while he
held the branch above him, like the Statue of Liberty lighting the
world.
"Here we are," he said. "Take it while I have a look at my leg. It's
nothing but an abrasion. It looks like a trail from my ankle up to the
back of my knee. What care we? I've got trails on the brain, haven't I?"
Tom took the branch and stood looking admiringly, yet with a glint of
amusement lighting his stolid features, at the younger boy, who sat with
his knees drawn up humorously inspecting the scratch on his leg.
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