For, thrilled as he was at the young scout’s agility and fine abandon, he was yet doubtful of Hervey’s power of deliberation and presence of mind.  But no one could advise a creature capable of being carried away in a very frenzy of nervous enthusiasm, and Tom, sober and sensible, knew this.  Hervey Willetts would do this thing or crash his brains out, one or the other, and no one could help or hinder him.

Amid the crackling sound of breaking limbs and a shower of leaves and smaller twigs, the mighty bird of prey, extricating himself from every obstacle, tore his way into the leafy recess where his little victim waited, trembling.  Every branch seemed agitated by his ruthless, irresistible advance, and the hanging nest swayed upon its slender branch, as the cruel talons of the intruder fixed themselves in the yielding bark.  The weight of the monster bird upon the very branch which his little victim had chosen for a home caused it to bend almost to the breaking point, and the hanging nest, agitated by the shock, swung low near the end of the curving bough.

[Illustration:  HERVEY SAVES THE LITTLE BIRD FROM THE EAGLE.

Tom Slade on Mystery Trail.  Page 42]

That was bad strategy on the part of the invader.  As the end of the bough descended under his weight, there was the appalling sound of a splitting branch, which made Tom Slade’s blood run cold, and he held his breath in frightful suspense, expecting to see the form of his young friend come crashing to earth.

But the boy who had ventured out so far upon that straining branch had swung free of it just in time, and was swinging from the branch above.  The great bird had played into the hands of his dexterous enemy when he had placed his weight upon the branch above, from which the nest hung.

Hervey could not have trusted his own weight upon that upper branch, and he knew it.  But even had he dared to do this he could not have passed the enraged bird who stood guard within a yard or two of his little victim.  When the weight of the bird’s great body bent the branch down, Hervey, close in toward the trunk just below, saw his chance.  He did not see the danger.

Scrambling out upon that slender branch, he moved cautiously but with beating heart, out to a point where the bending branch above was within his reach.  If the eagle had left the branch above, that branch would have swung out of Hervey’s reach and he would have gone crashing to the ground when his own branch broke.  He knew that branch must break under him.  He knew, he must have known, that the chances were at least even that the eagle would desert the branch above in either assault or flight.

Hervey’s chance was the chance of a moment, and it lay just in this:  in getting far enough out on the branch before it broke to catch the branch above before it sprang up and away from him.  Also he must trust to the slightly heavier branch above not breaking.