camp. Having with great originality christened the place Lookout,
I turned to go. And as I turned I saw a shape vanish into the
woods.

It was an animal, not a human shape. And it was light-footed and
swift and noiseless--and it was white. It had, indeed, every
distinguishing trait of Cookie's phantom pig. Only it was not a
pig. My brief shadowy glimpse of it had told me that. I knew what
it was not, but what it was I could not, as I stood there rooted,
even guess,

Would it attack me, or should I only die of fright? I wondered if
my heart were weak, and hoped it was, so that I should not live to
feel the teeth of the unknown Thing sink in my flesh. I thought of
my revolver and after an infinity of time managed to draw it from
the case. My fingers seemed at once nervelessly limp and woodenly
rigid. This was not at all the dauntless front with which I had
dreamed of meeting danger. I had fancied myself with my automatic
making a rather pretty picture as a young Amazon--but I had now a
dreadful fear that my revolver might spasmodically go off and wound
the Thing, and then even if it had meditated letting me go it would
certainly attack me. Nevertheless I clung to my revolver as to my
last hope.

I began to edge away crab-wise into the wood. Like a metronome I
said to myself over and over monotonously, _don't run, don't run_!
Dim legends about the power of the human eye floated through my
brain. But how quell the creature with my eye when I could not see
it? As for the hopeless expedient of screaming, I hadn't courage
for it. I was silent, as I would fain have been invisible. Only