Thad was of course thrilled by this intelligence; but at the same time he remembered that he had promised Allan the next chance, in case they had reason to believe a moose were in the vicinity.
Accordingly, he spoke to the Maine boy, and then asked the others to kindly moderate their noise; though Sebattis had already told him that they would go fully a mile from the camp before answering the far-away call.
Again did Sebattis seem to know where he wanted to wait to see if the moose was to be drawn near the waiting rifles. He settled down at a certain place, and sent out the strange call that, heard in the dead silence of the Maine night, always makes the blood of the hunter leap wildly through his veins.
There was an immediate answering call, and after waiting a little time, they once more sent a challenge forth.
This was kept up for half an hour, but so far as Thad could see, no advantage had been gained. Sebattis was grunting now, every time he called. Perhaps he began to believe this must be a mighty queer moose, to send back that rolling defiance, and yet not advance to any appreciable extent.
“No good, bull!” he finally declared, as they heard the answer come from some distance, and in exactly the same quarter as before.
“But if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed; why, he might go to the mountain,” Thad suggested; “in other words, chief, what’s to hinder us from heading that way, with you giving him a call every little while? He’ll either have to run away, or face the music then, I guess.”
“Huh! just like Thad say; Sebattis ready; heap queer; never know bull like that. Soon see!”
As they moved along, following the guide, who occasionally sent out a call, Allan took occasion to say to his chum in a whisper:
“He’s some worked up about that answer, Thad, and I saw him shake his head. Come to think of it, I really don’t believe it’s a moose at all.”