When the dry wood burned away the boys piled on more, keeping green leaves on top all the time, to make the smudge. After the fires had burned for half an hour a signal came from the thicket—a long, shrill whistle to attract attention, and then a few bars of “The Star Spangled Banner.”
“That’s a Boy Scout, all right,” Jimmie exclaimed, “but it ain’t none of our bunch. They wouldn’t wait to whistle. They’d jump right in an’ tell us where to head in at. You bet they would.”
In a moment a human hand, a slender, boyish hand, appeared above a great squatty plant at the foot of the knoll. The thumb and first finger were extended opened out, the three remaining fingers closed over the palm of the hand.
“Whoop!” yelled Jimmie. “The sign of the Silver Wolf.”
“Come on up,” cried Peter. “The appetite is fine.”
Then a boyish figure arose from the shelter of the plant and moved up the hill to where the boys stood. He was apparently about fifteen years of age, was dressed as a lad of his age might appear on Broadway, and presented a fresh, cheerful face, now wrinkled into smiles, to the boys waiting with extended hands.
“Where are you from?” asked Jimmie, shaking the extended hand warmly. “We’re from the Black Bear and Wolf Patrols, New York, and we don’t know any more about getting along in the woods than a Houston street mucker.”
“I’m from the Black Bear Patrol of Chicago,” the other replied, “and my name is Anthony Chester, Tony for short. What you doing in the Devil’s Hole?”
“Is this the Devil’s Hole?” asked Jimmie.