Davy did not like to roam along entirely unarmed, and hence he had hunted up a club, which he gripped valorously. He kept just a little behind Giraffe, if an imaginary line were marked across the island from shore to shore. This was because he wished to allow the one who held the firearm a full sweep of territory in case he found occasion to shoot, or even threaten.
Now and then Giraffe would speak to his companion, as a rule asking him to “kindly give a poke in that patch of bushes, where it looks like a man might find it easy to hide”; or “peek into that hole between the rocks, Davy—don’t be afraid a bear’ll come out at you, ’cause there ain’t any such good luck waiting for us.”
By giving various signals the boys managed to maintain something like a straight line as they pushed on. They could see one another frequently, too, which enabled them to keep from forging ahead in any one place.
“Listen to the crows cawing, will you?” Giraffe presently remarked, as though the noise of the flock might be sweet music to his ears, since it told of the life in the open which Giraffe dearly loved.
“They’re a noisy lot, ain’t they?” remarked Davy; “whatever d’ye s’pose ails that bunch of crows, Giraffe? Would they scold that way if they just happened to see a pair of hoboes eating breakfast, d’ye think?”
“Well, it might be they would,” the other replied thoughtfully; “and come to think of it they’re somewhere down below us, ain’t they? Hunters often know when game is moving by the signs in the sky; for birds can see down, and they talk, you know, in a language of their own. I’ve often wished I could understand what crows said when they scolded so hard.”
Just there Davy began to move away from his partner again, as he tried to cover his share of the territory; so conversation died out temporarily between them.
They had passed the place where the camp fire burned, with Bumpus and Smithy watching their movements eagerly. The thick brush now hid the camp from their sight, and what lay before them they could only guess.
Once more Davy drew close to his mate, thrusting his club to the right and to the left, in the endeavor not to leave a stone unturned in clearing up the land.
“Wherever do you think they’ve gone, Giraffe?” he asked, as though beginning to feel the strain of the suspense that hung over them, as they continued this strange hunt for the tramps.