Reaching the lake, he went over to the canoe, where they had beached it. To his dismay he found that in their excitement they had turned it over after getting out, leaving the end that had held the rope hanging over the water’s edge. Consequently it had dropped out and floated away and probably by this time it was floating its merry way down into the subterranean depths of Eagle Lake. “Can you beat that for luck?” Westy questioned aloud. “I can’t paddle the darn thing across either with this bird in my hands, and I’m afraid to lay it down. I’ll have to get around to the other side of the lake so I can keep my eye on Artie. I better hurry so I can tend to the poor thing. It’s still alive all right; I can feel something moving.” He was out of breath between talking to himself and running, but finally he reached a spot where he could command an excellent view of the hollow. He waited a while, apprehensively. His patience was soon rewarded for he became aware of something moving within the hollow, and then perceived it was Artie waving his handkerchief to assure him of his safety. Westy drew a deep breath, the first he had stopped to take since he had left Artie. He hated to think of having been forced to leave him up there alone. “Gee whiz,” he said aloud, as he slowly unwound his scarf from the bird, “if we hadn’t stopped to fool we might have made it at that. Jiminy, I wonder?” CHAPTER XXVII—HELP As the scarf came slowly off, Westy gazed with awe and admiration at this ferocious, yet magnificent bird that he held within the hollow of his left arm. Tenderly he placed it down on the soft warm earth. Instantly an expression of perplexity, then amazement, appeared on his face. He stared and then bent closer. Could it be possible, he thought? That he, Westy Martin, had so deceived himself and was so stupid as to hold the creature all this while and not know it? “Why,” he said aloud now, “I could swear I felt his heart beating!” Then the light of reason dawned in his bewildered mind. It must have been his own heart palpitating with excitement and the exertion of running. Hadn’t he held the bird close to his left breast? Of course! “Well!” he spoke softly now, but with exasperation. “I’m the original dumb-bell! It probably was dead when Artie handed it to me! It’s stone cold now! Can you beat it? And all this for nothing! As usual, poor Artie’s the goat!” he murmured regretfully, looking up toward the imprisoned boy hopefully for some further sign from him. There was none, for Artie wisely kept himself well within the enclosure, as the two eagles were now perched menacingly on the edge of the precipice. “Can it be,” thought Westy, “that they are already scenting their young one to where he had fallen?”