The monarch of the mountain crags, having circled the elm, had found a
way in where the foliage was least dense, and had thus with irresistible
power carried the outer defenses of that little hanging citadel.

And still the little streak of red showed up there in the dimness of
those invaded branches, and one might have fancied it to be the colors
of the besieged victim, flaunting still in a kind of hopeless defiance.
Down out of the green twilight above floated a feather, then
another--trifling losses of the conqueror in his triumphal entry.

"You're not going to get away with that," said Hervey in a voice tense
with wrath and grim determination; "you're--you're--not----"

What happened then happened so quickly as almost to rival the descent of
the destroyer in lightning movement. Before Tom Slade realized what had
happened, there was Hervey's khaki jacket on the ground, his discarded
hat was blowing away, and his navy blue scout scarf was plastered by the
freshening breeze flat against the trunk of the tree.

Hervey Willetts, who had dreamed and striven all through the vacation
season of "capturing the Eagle," as they say, was on his quest in dead
earnest.




CHAPTER VIII

EAGLE AND SCOUT