"I'm sorry, Pat," said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of his cot and buried his face in his hands.
O'Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his shoulders. "Buck up, Tom!" That was all he said, but the pressure of the friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.
From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.
"Sufferin' cats!" ejaculated O'Grady. "What was that?"
Orman had raised his head and was listening. "Probably some more grief for us," he replied forebodingly.
They sat silent for a moment then, listening.
"I wonder what could make such a noise," O'Grady spoke in hushed tones.
"Pat," Orman's tone was serious, "do you believe in ghosts?"
O'Grady hesitated before he replied. "I don't know—but I've seen some funny things in my time."
"So have I," said Orman.