Several times a lad uttered an exclamation, believing he had caught sight of the footprints of some denizen of the woods. Instantly, several ran to him and joined in the scrutiny, but in each instance the belief of success became doubtful, finally vanished and the hunt went on as before. Upon many the conviction gradually forced itself that they had essayed that which was impossible.
It was natural perhaps that the attention of the couple on the boulder should center upon Mike Murphy, who was the most ardent searcher of them all. He examined the ground near the spectators, but soon shifted to the periphery, as it may be called, of the big circle. With his buckthorn in hand, he poked among the leaves, so rumpling and overturning them that he would have obscured all the footprints that at first were visible. Unlike the others, Mike made visual search through the branches of the trees. After studying the ground for a while, he would straighten up and peer here and there among the limbs, as if certain that the answer to the problem would there reveal itself.
“I’ve an idea,” he said to himself, “that it’s a grizzly bear or a big tiger that is prowling round, and scrooching among the leaves. If he should drop down on me shoulder and begin clawing me head, it would be as bad as when Terry Googan had the coort house fall on top of him—whisht!”
Mike was thrilled at the moment by the discovery of that which he believed was the lost trail. Suppressing his emotions, he first made certain that none of the scouts was looking at him. He was vastly relieved to note that all were so absorbed in their own work that for the time they were oblivious. He did not glance in the direction of the two spectators on the boulder, for they were “out of it.”
Devoting several minutes to a closer study of a depression near a decayed stump, Mike poked the leaves gently apart with his cane. Then he chortled, and turning about sauntered indifferently toward his friends, swinging his cane as if it were a swagger stick, and humming softly to himself.
“By the way,” remarked Scout Master Hall, as he and his friend heard the soft musical notes, “Alvin and Chester tell me that Mike is gifted with a marvelous voice. A prima donna on the steamer was so impressed by it that she offered to educate him for the operatic stage, but Mike won’t think of such a thing.”
“Have you ever heard him sing?”
“No, but I intend soon to do so. He is modest with his gift, but is always ready to oblige. He seems to have learned something.”
Mike had ceased his humming, and halting a few paces in front of the two made a quick half salute. The Scout Master’s face became serious and the manner of Uncle Elk could not have been graver.
“Have you come to make your report, Michael?” he asked.