"Now I have only to whistle to have the awful animal appear. His head
will slowly rise above the water. His jaws will open. His teeth will
gleam. If any little girl cries, he will snap at her, and it will be
good-bye girl. Now, if you are not a fraid-cat you'll say, 'Harvey
Baker, whistle.'"

She wanted to run more than ever, but instead she repeated slowly:

"Harvey Baker, whistle."

The boy pursed up his lips, but he then made an impressive pause, and
finally pointed his finger at Beth.

"Elizabeth Davenport, remember. If you give the least little bit of a
cry, you die. But, if you keep perfectly still, and never tell what
you see, I am your friend for life." Thereupon he whistled very
shrilly.

Beth's eyes were glued upon the water. Every little ripple seemed to
her excited imagination an awful head rising to gobble her up.
However, nothing appeared. Beth gave a sigh of relief.

"Harvey Baker, you were fooling."

He motioned to her to be silent. Again, he whistled. Still no
horrible head appeared. Beth was now fully convinced that he was only
making believe, but still she could not take her eyes off the water.

For the third time, Harvey whistled. Suddenly the waters parted.