Bumpus immediately shivered, as though that reminded him he ought to be ashamed of himself to be enjoying such things, with heartless disregard concerning the dreadful happenings that, for aught he knew, were taking place at his home.
“Ah!” he remarked, with a big sigh; “I wonder where they all are to-night. And I certainly hope from the bottom of my heart, my poor father and mother, and all my brothers and sisters ain’t a-sittin’ on the curb, without a place to sleep in. What if that foolish forgetfulness was the cause of it all? I’ll never be happy again, boys, never once!”
“Oh! there he goes again on that same old racket!” exclaimed Giraffe; who did not appear to feel the slightest sympathy for his afflicted comrade, simply, because he would not believe there could be any reason for the dire forebodings of Bumpus. “Now, if we only had a wireless outfit along, and Bumpus, here, could get in direct touch with his folks, I reckon they’d give him the merry laugh because he’s been so silly about that old letter. Why, chances are, it wasn’t anything much, after all. Perhaps your dad wanted to ask his friend the cashier of the bank to drop around that evening, and have a game of billiards at your house. Do please forget it; or anyway bury your troubles deep down in your own bosom, Bumpus; because, if you keep on frettin’ and moanin’ like you’ve been doing, the chances are you’ll spoil this outing for the rest of us.”
“Well,” remarked Bumpus, indignantly; “guess if you happened to be in the same fix that bothers me, you’d moan and groan too.”
“Oh! I’ve got troubles of my own, let me tell you,” continued Giraffe; “all of us have. There’s Step Hen, he’s wondering what we’re going to have to eat if we clean out all we fetched along, and the game keeps some shy; Davy’s been uneasy this long time, ever since, in fact, he fell into the camp-fire from the limb of a tree, where he was hangin’ by his toes when the rotten thing broke under him; Bumpus, you yourself are over your head in a sea of troubles; or you were a short time back, when you took that header over the end of the canoe, into the river. We all have ’em, old fellow; but we don’t go around whinin’, and tellin’ every one. Do close up. There, looks like Sebattis is satisfied with the shape of the horn he’s made. Let’s take a squint at it, please.”
The birch bark trumpet was passed around for examination. No one knew better how to manufacture the simple but effective moose call than the Penobscot. Even such an old and experienced guide as the Maine woodsman, Eli Crookes, was ready to admit that Sebattis stood in a class all by himself, when it came to enticing the wary but belligerent moose to approach, by means of insidious calls upon the crude horn, that breathed defiance one minute, and enticing sounds the next.
“See if you can make it go,” suggested Step Hen.
Accordingly Thad, who had it in his hands at the time, placed it to his mouth. He puffed his cheeks out, and Bumpus hastened to clap both hands over his ears, as though he expected to hear a strident blast, such as the old-time Highland chiefs were accustomed to making when they wanted their clans to appear, and attack the hated English from south of the border.
But it was wonderful what a miserably soft noise followed all these efforts on the part of Thad. He had never touched a moose call before, and did not have the knack of extracting anything like a bellow from the innocent-looking device.
There was a general laugh at his inability to make use of the call; even the two Maine guides joining in, though the result was nothing more nor less than had been expected on their part. It requires long practice to know just how to pucker up the lips, and send the wind whistling through the bark tube that becomes larger at the further end, until it resembles a megaphone.