topping
every two or three seconds to try to climb up that hateful, smooth,
shiny wall.

The more he tried to climb out, the more frightened he became.

He was in a perfect panic of fear. He quite lost his head, did
Whitefoot. The harder he struggled, the more tired he became, and the
greater was his danger of drowning.

Whitefoot squeaked pitifully. He didn't want to drown. Of course not. He
wanted to live. But unless he could get out of that pail very soon, he
would drown. He knew it. He knew that he couldn't hold on much longer.
He knew that just as soon as he stopped paddling, he would sink. Already
he was so tired from his frantic efforts to escape that it seemed to
him that he couldn't hold out any longer. But somehow he kept his legs
moving, and so kept afloat.

Just why he kept struggling, Whitefoot couldn't have told. It wasn't
because he had any hope. He didn't have the least bit of hope. He knew
now that he couldn't climb the sides of that pail, and there was no
other way of getting out. Still he kept on paddling. It was the only way
to keep from drowning, and though he felt sure that he had got to drown
at last, he just wouldn't until he actually had to. And all the time
Whitefoot squeaked hopelessly, despairingly, pitifully. He did it
without knowing that he did it, just as he kept paddling round and
round.

CHAPTER VIII: The Rescue

When Whitefoot made the heedless jump that landed him in a pail half
filled with sap, no one else was in the little sugar-house. Whitefoot
was quite alone. You see, Farmer Brown and Farmer Brown's boy were out
collecting sap from the trees, and Bowser the Hound was with them.

Farmer Brown's boy was the first to return. He came in just after
Whitefoot had given up all hope. He went at once to the fire to put
more wood on. As he finished this job he heard the faintest of little
squeaks. It was a very pitiful little squeak. Farmer Brown's boy stood
perfectly still and listened. He heard it again. He knew right away that
it was the voice of Whitefoot.

"Hello!" exclaimed Farmer Brown's boy. "That sounds as if Whitefoot is
in trouble of some kind. I wonder where the little rascal is. I wonder
what can have happened to him. I must look into this." Again Farmer
Brown's boy heard that faint little squeak. It was so faint that he
couldn't tell where it came from. Hurriedly and anxiously he looked all
over the little sugar-house, stopping every few seconds to listen
for t