Uncle Andy had a prejudice against those good people who were always sternly consistent, and he was determined that he would never allow himself to become a crank; so he went on enthusiastically killing fish with the same zest that he had once brought to the hunting of beast and bird.
While they were yet several hundred yards from the stream, suddenly there came to their ears, unmistakable though muffled by the intervening trees, the sound of a brisk splash, as if something had fallen into the water.

Uncle Andy stopped short in his tracks, motionless as a setter marking his bird.

The Babe stopped likewise, faithfully imitating him.

A couple of seconds later came another splash, as heavy as the first; and then, in quick succession, two lighter ones.
For a moment or two the Babe kept silence, though bursting with curiosity.

Then he whispered tensely--"What's that ?" "Otter," replied Uncle Andy, in a murmur as soft as the wind in the sedge-tops.
"Why ?" continued the Babe, meaning to say--"But what on earth are they doing ?" and trusting that Uncle Andy would appreciate the self-restraint of the monosyllable.
"Sliding down hill," muttered Uncle Andy, without turning his head.
Then, holding up his hand as a sign that there were to be no more questions asked, he crept forward noiselessly; and the Babe followed at his heels.
After two or three minutes the sounds were repeated in the same succession as before--first two heavy splashes, and then two lighter ones.