He would drum
with his feet and after a slight pause there would be an answering
drum. Then Whitefoot would run as fast as he could in that direction
only to find no one at all. Then he would drum again and the reply
would come from another direction.
Every moment Whitefoot became more excited. He forgot everything,
even danger, in his desire to see that little drummer. Once or
twice he actually lost his temper in his disappointment. But this
was only for a moment. He was too eager to find that little drummer
to be angry very long.
At last there came a time when there was no reply to his drumming.
He drummed and listened, then drummed again and listened. Nothing
was to be heard. There was no reply. Whitefoot's heart sank.
All the old lonesomeness crept over him again. He didn't know which
way to turn to look for that stranger. When he had drummed until he
was tired, he sat on the end of an old log, a perfect picture of
disappointment. He was so disappointed that he could have cried if
it would have done any good.
Just as he had about made up his mind that there was nothing to do but
to try to find his way home, his keen little ears caught the faintest
rustle of dry leaves.
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