"What's the matter?" asked Tom.
"I burned my finger," sighed Dave.
"Burned your finger—in a dead fire?"
But Dick, stirring the burned bits of wood with his shoe, suddenly lay bare some dull red coals.
"Look-a-here, fellows," hailed Dan in the same moment. "Here's meat and bread, and part of a can of tomatoes on the table. The bread ain't old enough to be mouldy."
"Fellows," announced Dick Prescott, moving about, "there's some one living here—some one besides ourselves!"
CHAPTER VII
THE PROWLER OF THE NIGHT
