While they were yet several hundred yards from the stream, suddenly
there came to their ears, unmistakable though muffled by the
intervening trees, the sound of a brisk splash, as if something had
fallen into the water. Uncle Andy stopped short in his tracks,
motionless as a setter marking his bird. The Babe stopped likewise,
faithfully imitating him. A couple of seconds later came another
splash, as heavy as the first; and then, in quick succession, two
lighter ones.

For a moment or two the Babe kept silence, though bursting with
curiosity. Then he whispered tensely--"What's that?"

"Otter," replied Uncle Andy, in a murmur as soft as the wind in the
sedge-tops.

"Why?" continued the Babe, meaning to say--"But what on earth are they
doing?" and trusting that Uncle Andy would appreciate the
self-restraint of the monosyllable.

"Sliding down hill," muttered Uncle Andy, without turning his head.
Then, holding up his hand as a sign that there were to be no more
questions asked, he crept forward noiselessly; and the Babe followed at
his heels.

After two or three minutes the sounds were repeated in the same
succession as before--first two heavy splashes, and then two lighter
ones. Unable to ask questions, the Babe was obliged to think for
himself.