'Somebody’s there!' cried the voice unalarmed. 'Who are you?—Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?'
'I’m Don Juan!' Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the noise of the rain and the wind.
A delighted shriek came from the haystack.
'How do I get up?' he cried from the foot of the haystack, whither he had arrived, dripping wet. A head appeared over the edge—it was so dark that Amory could just make out a patch of damp hair and two eyes that gleamed like a cat’s.
'Run back!' came the voice, 'and jump and I’ll catch your hand—no, not there—on the other side.'
He followed directions and as he sprawled up the side, knee-deep in hay, a small, white hand reached out, gripped his, and helped him onto the top.
'Here you are, Juan,' cried she of the damp hair. 'Do you mind if I drop the Don?'