Bumpus had a very good voice, and often did entertain his chums while in camp by singing certain songs they were particularly fond of. He was a sensible fellow, and did not take offense easily. Moreover, even though he might feel huffed over some action on the part of his mates, he never “let the sun go down on his wrath,” but was quick to extend the olive branch of peace.
“Sure I understand, Thad!” he declared; “and I’m going to bottle up my voice on this occasion, so’s to have it in fine trim, to let loose in a hallelujah when we find that it is your little sister Pauline—”
Bumpus said no more, and for a very good reason; because, just at that particular moment there arose the strangest sort of sound from some point close by, such as none of the scouts could ever remember hearing before.
CHAPTER IV.
SOME WOODS LORE.
“What d’ye call that, now?” exclaimed Step Hen.
Giraffe assumed a superior air, as he hastened to remark:
“Next time you hear an old alligator bull bellow, you’ll recognize the same; but to tell the truth, I’m kind of disappointed, myself, because I expected to get something bigger’n that.”
“Was it an alligator, Thad?” demanded Davy; while Bumpus was seen to involuntarily move a little closer to the tree under which the camp-fire had been made, and the twin, khaki-colored, waterproof tents erected.
The scout-master shook his head in the negative.
“Giraffe’s got another guess coming to him this time,” he said. “From all I’ve picked up, I reckon we’ll not be disappointed when we do hear some old scaly bull bellow. But they tell me this happens generally along toward dawn. And the sound is more like the roaring of a lion, than what a regular bull gives out.”