"Half-past ten," whispered Reade, as Dick sat up. "Go out to the wash basin and dash cold water into your eyes. That will open 'em and freshen you up."
"Have you seen anything of the prowler?" whispered Dick, as he got upon his feet.
"Not a sign," declared Tom.
"It would be too early for him to prowl about yet," whispered
Dick, as he passed out into the Summer night. "Good night, Tom."
Only a faint stirring of the light breeze in the tree tops, the droning hum of night insects, and the occasional call of a night bird—-these were all the sounds that came to the ears of the young camp guard.
Dick dashed the water into his eyes, then felt wonderfully wide awake.
"If Mr. Prowler comes, he'll probably go for the canned vegetables and the biscuit," Prescott decided. "He must already have more meat than he can handle all day to-morrow—-if it doesn't spoil."
So Dick posted himself where he could easily watch the approach of any outsider toward the boxes that served as cupboards for the canned supplies.
The time slipped away, until it was nearly midnight, as Prescott knew from stepping into the tent and lighting a match briefly for a swift glimpse at his watch.
As Dick came out of the tent he fancied he heard a distant step, crackling on a broken twig.