He was sitting at the foot of a tree--evidently his tree, for we could see the tattered nest in the branches, in which he slept at night.
I pointed him out to Lop-Ear, and we made a rush for him.

He started to climb, but was too slow.

I caught him by the leg and dragged him back.
Then we had fun.

We pinched him, pulled his hair, tweaked his ears, and poked twigs into him, and all the while we laughed with streaming eyes.
His futile anger was most absurd.

He was a comical sight, striving to fan into flame the cold ashes of his youth, to resurrect his strength dead and gone through the oozing of the years--making woeful faces in place of the ferocious ones he intended, grinding his worn teeth together, beating his meagre chest with feeble fists.
Also, he had a cough, and he gasped and hacked and spluttered prodigiously.