THE "CONY" 117 



could not tell. The rocks were rough, rusty chunks 

 two or three feet long, piled helter-skelter without 

 form or order, so that any one spot in the slide looked 

 precisely like every other spot. I could not tell just 

 the piece the cony had crossed, once my eyes were 

 off of it, nor into which of the cracks he had disap- 

 peared. I could only sit still and wait till I caught 

 him moving, so completely did his color blend with 

 the rusty brown tone of the slide. 



All the while the shrill, piteous call kept coming 

 from anywhere in the slide. But it was not the call 

 of several voices, not a colony whistling at once. The 

 conies live in colonies, but, judging from the single 

 small haycock which they had curing in the sun, I 

 think there could not have been more than two or 

 three pairs of them in this particular slide. Possibly 

 there was only the single pair, one of which had been 

 shot, for presently, when my eyes grew sharp enough 

 to pick the little creature out against the rocks, I 

 found that one was doing all the calling, and that for 

 some reason he was greatly disturbed. 



Now he would stop on a slab and whistle, then 

 dive into some long passage under the stones, to re- 

 appear several feet or yards away. Here he would 

 pause to listen, and, hearing nothing, would call 

 again, waiting for an answer to his tremulous cry 

 which did not come. 



Under and over the stones, up and down the slide, 

 now close to me, now on the extreme opposite edge 



