Once more came the sound, more piercing than ever. Dick leaped from his bunk and began to dress. Dave and Greg followed suit.
"We'll do our best to find out what it is, fellows," Dick promised them.
Hen Dutcher was chattering and half sobbing.
"If I—I ever g-g-get out of this alive," he chattered, "I'll never stick around y-y-y-you fellows again. I was a f-f-f-fool to let you fellows coax me into staying here."
"Get out, then!" retorted Tom Reade half savagely, as he landed on the floor and began to dress. All were soon up except Hen, who, when a more dismal and bloodcurdling wail than ever came along, hid his head under one of the overcoats that covered him.
"It's a wild cat—that's what it is," declared Greg Holmes.
"Only one objection to that idea," returned Dick Prescott. "No one has ever heard of a wild cat in these parts in forty years."
"Then it's some one out perishing in the cold," suggested Dave.
"Whoever might be out in the cold wouldn't have much time to yell like that about it," argued Dick. "A wayfarer, out in the cold and deep snow to-night, would soon lie down and freeze to death."
But now something happened that made the blood of all the listeners run cold.