There was a note in it which seemed to the boy to speak of human lips. While he listened another call—louder, longer, more insistent—came—the call of the pack! Jimmie almost danced in his excitement.
“The Wolf Patrol!” he shouted. “The good old Wolf Patrol!”
Throwing back his head he produced an excellent imitation of the challenge he had heard. It echoed through the forest singly for a moment and was then joined by the call which had attracted his attention.
“Mother of Moses!” the boy cried. “The people will think there’s a whole pack of timber wolves in the country.”
Advancing now through the thicket, the boy soon saw a motion in the underbrush not far away. He stood still and waited.
“Hello, Wolf!” he shouted in a moment.
“Hello, Wolf!” came the answer.
“Show your colors!” Jimmie called.
In a moment a slender, dusky boy advanced out of the thicket and approached Jimmie, his right hand extended palm out, thumb and little finger crossed—the full sign of the Boy Scout.
Jimmie sat flat down on the ground his back against a tree trunk and regarded the lad quizzically.