The squirrel roasted in its hide proved a passable supper, and
Rolf curled up to sleep. The night would have been pleasant and
uneventful, but that it turned chilly, and when the fire burnt
low, the cold awakened him, so he had a succession of naps and
fire-buildings.
Soon after dawn, he heard a tremendous roaring, and in a few
minutes the wood was filled again with pigeons.
Rolf was living on the country now, so he sallied forth with his
bow. Luck was with him; at the first shot he downed a big, fat
cock. At the second he winged another, and as it scrambled
through the brush, he rushed headlong in pursuit. It fluttered
away beyond reach, halfflying, half-running, and Rolf, in
reckless pursuit, went sliding and tumbling down a bank to land
at the bottom with a horrid jar. One leg was twisted under him;
he thought it was broken, for there was a fearful pain in the
lower part. But when he pulled himself together he found no
broken bones, indeed, but an ankle badly sprained. Now his
situation was truly grave, for he was crippled and incapable of
travelling.
He had secured the second bird, and crawling painfully and slowly
back to the fire, he could not but feel more and more despondent
and gloomy as the measure of his misfortune was realized.
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