"
And before Uncle Felix could expostulate or say a word in self-
defence, the inevitable reward of his mistake was upon him.
"_You've_ got the handkerchief!"
Already the boy was looking about him for a suitable tree.
"But _you_ saw the sign, Tim," he began excuses; "and it's _your_
wood; I've never been here before--"
"That one looks the easiest," suggested Tim, pointing to a beech. It
had one low branch, but the trunk was smooth and slippery as ice. He
pushed aside the foliage with his hands to make an opening towards it.
"I'll help you up." Tim spoke as though there was no time to lose.
But help came just then unexpectedly from another quarter--there was a
sudden battering sound. Something went past them through the branches
with a crashing noise. It was terrific, the way it smashed and
clattered overhead, making a clapping rattle that died away into the
distance with strange swiftness. They jumped; their hearts stood still
a moment. It was so horribly close. But the stillness that followed
the uproar was far worse than the noise. It felt as though the Wood
had stretched a hand and aimed a crafty blow at them from behind the
shield of foliage.
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