“There’s Trevor,” shouted Bonner pointing to the near-by river. There was a rush in that direction. The only thing to be seen was the section of a half-rotted log drifting slowly with the current in the middle of the stream. As it lodged against the driftwood caught by the bridge abutment, a sleek and oily-looking plaster of hair slowly rose from its far side.
“Trevor, number four,” exclaimed two blue and cold lips, and a shivering form drew itself into the sunlight again.
One after another the “hide-outs” appeared in camp. Finally all had arrived but Connie. As the half hour neared its end the Wolves began to show alarm.
“He’s right up there at the bend of the road under a pile of cut thistles,” explained Bonner. A dash was made to the spot. But Connie was not there. If he failed to report in five minutes he would be penalized and counted as found, increasing to nine the number detected. Watches flew out. Good points of vantage were selected by spectators and every possible approach kept under anxious watch. The time limit had all but expired. Professor Souter stepped forward and called:
“All present but one. Alexander Conyers here?”
“All right,” was the almost instant answer in a sleepy tone. “What d’you want?”
Hundreds of persons turned to see Connie step from one of the tents, rubbing his eyes and yawning.