Away back on the mountain road lay Methuselah, somewhat stunned by his fall. All night he lay there with a piece nicked from his shell. At sunrise he was off over the rough road heading for the pond. He crawled along aimlessly at first. Finally reaching a rise in the ground, all at once he lifted his snaky neck, scenting moisture--the pond. Raising himself high upon his great flippers, his horny head stretched out like a racer, he ran scrambling over stones and through matted jungles of weeds. At last he saw the gleam of the pond lying steel-like and sullen ahead. The hot sun heated his thick shell to furnace heat, scorching his flesh beneath; he longed to plunge into the cooling water. Finally, in desperate haste having reached a high place in the bank, he rolled the remainder of the distance and fell with a loud splash into the pond, straight down into the oozing mud to the bottom, scattering catfish and small fry in all directions. And there he is still, old Methuselah, the Tyrant of Black Pond, and no one actually knows his age, for 'tis said _some_ turtles have lived a thousand years. But if you ever run across the old Tyrant you may recognise him readily if you have courage and strength enough to turn him over upon his back, for there you will find upon his shell the two dates--1825 and 1913. CHAPTER VII MAHUG, THE CHAMPION DIVER A strange, uncanny scream rang out over the sullen waters of Black Lake one night in June, and, although there was no human being near the desolate spot to hear the awful cry, it was quite scary enough to startle certain of the wild inhabitants all alongshore. There were others among them, however, who were unafraid; they had heard the same cry before and recognised it. They knew that Mahug, the Great King Loon, and his wild mate had arrived at the lake, where each year they came from warmer climes, to build their hidden nest in some secluded spot among the rushes.