Jack London. Before Adam -
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forest, roaring with self-induced rage as he came. Like all the
men of our horde, when they were angry or were trying to make
themselves angry, he stopped now and again to hammer on his
chest with his fist.
I realized the helplessness of my situation, and crouched
trembling in the nest. The Chatterer came directly to the
tree--I remember it was an oak tree--and began to climb up. And
he never ceased for a moment from his infernal row. As I have
said, our language was extremely meagre, and he must have
strained it by the variety of ways in which he informed me of
his undying hatred of me and of his intention there and then to
have it out with me.
As he climbed to the fork, I fled out the great horizontal
limb. He followed me, and out I went, farther and farther. At
last I was out amongst the small twigs and leaves. The
Chatterer was ever a coward, and greater always than any anger
he ever worked up was his caution. He was afraid to follow me
out amongst the leaves and twigs. For that matter, his greater
weight would have crashed him through the foliage before he
could have got to me.
But it was not necessary for him to reach me, and well he
knew it, the scoundrel! With a malevolent expression on his
face, his beady eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence, he began
teetering. Teetering!--and with me out on the very edge of the
bough, clutching at the twigs that broke continually with my
weight. Twenty feet beneath me was the earth.
Wildly and more--wildly he teetered, grinning at me his
gloating hatred. Then came the end. All four holds broke at the
same time, and I fell, back-downward, looking up at him, my
hands and feet still clutching the broken twigs. Luckily, there
were no wild pigs under me, and my fall was broken by the tough