So Thad turned it over to Step Hen. That worthy did his level best, and was only able to extract a miserable squeak that made Bumpus chuckle.
“Just try it yourself, and see,” said Step Hen, thrusting the call into the chubby hands of the stout scout.
And so Bumpus, feeling confident that he could at least excel the last attempt, since he was the bugler of the troop, and could play on any sort of instrument, took the call. He grew so red in the face with trying to send forth a clarion note, that some of the boys feared he would break a blood vessel. But not even a grunt followed. The horn refused to show any of it’s good qualities, even when a master hand at the bugle took hold.
Then Giraffe was induced to try, and with no better success than had attended Step Hen’s attempt.
“I don’t believe the old thing can make a noise at all!” declared Bumpus, aggressively.
“Suppose you ask Sebattis to show you,” suggested Allan; who might have done it himself fairly well, but did not wish to spoil the work of the Indian.
Accordingly, the dark-faced guide, without showing the slightest interest in the matter, took the roll of birch bark, and placed it carelessly to his lips. What the boys listened to then, was a revelation to them. At first, the sound seemed like several troubled grunts, and Bumpus was grinning with the expectation that it was going to prove to be a rank failure, when the call grew louder and more insistent, until it seemed to roll up against the mountain far away on the other side of the river like a burst of thunder; or in great waves of sound. Then it grew softer again, and finally wound up with another tremendous volume that seemed to make the very air vibrate.
After Sebattis took the call down from his lips the echoes swung back and forth from one side of the river to the other, gradually dying away in the far distance.
“My! but that was simply great!” ejaculated the entranced Step Hen.
“Never heard anything to equal it in all my life; and such a queer whoop too!” declared Giraffe.