“If he is restless, I don’t object to his walking about in a gentlemanly manner,” said the birch whose shins had been rubbed, “as long as he picks his steps carefully; but to go slamming through regardless of the rest of us is most inconsiderate!” There was much bobbing of tree-tops and angry shaking of limbs in the direction the runaway tree had taken. But Snythergen might have saved himself running so far and so fast, had he taken the trouble to look around. For the hunters were not following but standing still, astonished at the spectacle of a tree racing through the forest at break-limb speed. In all the years they had lived in the woods never had they seen a runaway tree before. “Is the forest going crazy?” cried one. “What if all the trees were to run after us like a herd of buffalo! What chance would we have of escape?” The mere thought of it was so terrifying they turned and ran, leaving coats, rifle, and axes where they lay, and they did not stop until they were well out of the woods and safe in their own home, behind locked doors and windows. And they did not stir abroad for two days. When Sancho Wing saw the hunters and Snythergen running away from each other in opposite directions, it was too much for him. He laughed and laughed, and shook so that he fell from the limb he was perched on, and only saved himself from a bad fall by using his wings. “Surely I have paid Snythergen now for all of his tricks,” he cried merrily. During all this time Squeaky actually had remained asleep in Snythergen’s top branches, though his rest had been somewhat uneven. “Where am I?” he cried, rubbing his eyes and waking up to find himself violently tossed about, and bumped against the branches of trees as Snythergen crashed through the forest. With a breathless word here and there as he ran, Snythergen gave the pig an idea of what had happened, and when Squeaky realized all the dangers he had slept through, he lost his grip and would have fallen had Snythergen not tightened his hold. On and on ran the tree, stumbling and reeling, and with every lurch Squeaky’s little heart quivered; for tree-riding was as terrifying as hanging to the top of a mast in a storm at sea. What a relief when Snythergen slowed up and stopped at the shore of a lake, panting like a porpoise! “I think you had better get down now,” said Snythergen, “for I am going to wade across that lake and plant myself in the farmer’s yard on the other side. I shall remain there until the woodchoppers get tired of looking for me. I believe my leg is cut. Will you look on the ground and see if I am bleeding?” “I guess your leg isn’t bleeding,” said Squeaky after looking around, “for I don’t see any sawdust.” “Would you mind running home now, Squeaky, just to see that Sancho Wing is all right? I am a little worried about him. But if you will come back to this spot twice a day I will signal across the lake to let you know how I am getting on.”