On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first
seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes- it was a bright
sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes,
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain
breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He
recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a
keg of liquor- the mountain ravine- the wild retreat among the
rocks- the wobegone party at nine-pins- the flagon- "Oh! that
flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip- "what excuse shall I make to
Dame Van Winkle!"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel
incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten.
He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a
trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away
after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his
name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout,
but no dog was to be seen.
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