THE ELK-HUNTERS.
FOR some time after the departure of their friends, Wilson and Haverly sat yarning, the latter arousing the admiration of the engineer by his thrilling stories of train robberies and Indian fighting on the early railways of the States. Then their talk turned upon their absent comrades, and the American had many a tale to tell of Seymour’s daring in the face of dire peril.
So the time passed pleasantly enough, until suddenly, in the midst of a particularly thrilling yarn, Haverly leapt to his feet and strode to the door.
“What is it?” asked Wilson.
“Listen!” was the reply.
From somewhere in the jungle came a chorus of wolfish yelps, succeeded by a faint cry, “Help!”
“It’s Seymour!” cried the engineer, and snatched up a rifle.
Silas darted out on deck, revolver in hand.
“Help!” The cry was repeated, this time much nearer than before.
Quick as thought, Silas skimmed over the gangway, and leapt ashore, closely followed by the engineer.