From his pocket he produced the hunter’s horn, put it to his mouth and blew a long, melodious blast that echoed for several minutes from far-away over the woods. They listened. Away down the river a deep, distant roar came as if in answer. Jackson laughed.
“Guess that ain’t him. That’s the boat comin’ up. Forgot she was due to-night. Hark! There he is!”
A mile or two away—Lockwood could not guess the distance—another horn blew musically, rising, falling, dying into silence.
“All right. Bob’ll be here right soon,” said the boy. “Better fix what we’re a-goin’ to do.”
Lockwood walked back to the dark warehouse.
“I’ll stay back here,” he said. “I’ll hear and see what goes on, and I’ll be by you in a second if you need me. Just let Blue Bob know that he’s done fooling you, and he’ll give in.”
Jackson nodded somewhat dubiously, and walked out into the open space before the warehouse, while Lockwood leaned against the corner of the building, and they waited.
Miles away again they heard the roar of the river steamer. Looking down, Lockwood caught a glimpse of her searchlight over the trees, like sheet lightning on the sky. The river surged past at his feet, running strong with the recent rains. Drift of plank and timber went dimly by. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed nervously. They seemed an hour. Jackson had lighted a cigarette, and walked up and down as he smoked, invisible but for the moving spark of fire. Then there was a faint, low call from the edge of the woods. The boy stopped sharply, answered it; and then a trail of moving shapes came out into the clearing. Bob had brought his whole boat’s crew.
Jackson stepped forward to meet them. There was a low mutter.
“No, I ain’t got it,” he heard Jackson say.