Uncle Felix listened attentively to every word. The boy had moved up closer to him. "And if anything happens one of us must climb a tree and signal. _You've_ got the clean handkerchief. You see, it's at the centre that it gets rather nasty--because anybody who gets there simply disappears and is never heard of again. That's why there's no centre at all _really_. It's a terrible rescue we've got to do." The adventure fulfilled the desire of his heart, for, since there was no centre, the search would last for ever. "Keep a sharp look-out for the sign," replied the man, feeling a small hand steal into his own. "We'd better go in before it gets any darker." "Oh, that's nothing," was the whispered comment. "The great thing is not to lose our way. Just follow me!" They then went into this wood without a centre, without a middle, without a heart. Into this heartless wood they moved stealthily, Uncle Felix singing under his breath to keep his courage up: "A wood is a mysterious place, It never looks you in the face, But stares _behind_ you all the time. Your safest plan is just to--climb! For, otherwise you lose your way, The week, the month, the time of day; It turns you round, it makes you blind, And in the end you lose your mind! Avoid the centre, If you enter! "It grows upon you--grows immense, Its peace is _not_ indifference, It sees you--and it takes offence, It knows you're interfering. Its sleepliness is all pretence, With trunks and twigs and foliage dense It's watching you, alert, intense, It's furious; it's peering. "Upon the darkening paths below, Whichever way you try to go You'll meet with strange resistance. So climb a tree and wave your hand, The birds will see and understand, And _may_ bring you assistance. Avoid the centre, If you enter, For once you're there You--disappear! Smothered by depth and distance!" Tim listened without a sign of interest. Every one has his peculiarity, he supposed, and, provided his companion did not dance as well as sing, it was all right. The noise was unnecessary, perhaps, still--the sound of a human voice was not without its charm. The house was a very long way off; the gardeners never came this way. A wood _was_ a mysterious place! "Is that all?" he asked--but whether glad or sorry, no man could possibly have told. "For the present," came the reply, and the sound of both their voices fell a little dead, muffled by the density of the undergrowth. "Are we going right?"