The two boys cautiously approached the hole under the roots of the old, gnarled tree which grew out of the side of the hill not far from the pile of rocks. As he drew near Rick began sniffing the air cautiously, for, as he said, he had had one experience with a skunk that Ruddy stirred up, and did not want another.
“There’s a wild animal smell, but I don’t believe it comes from a skunk,” was Rick’s opinion as he drew near the hole. “Can you reach me a stick, Chot?”
“Here,” answered his chum, passing over a long slender tree branch. Rick poked it down in the hole, turned it around and jabbed it in as far as it would go. Nothing came out, not even a sound.
“Guess it’s a false alarm,” suggested Chot.
“Maybe so. Yet Ruddy isn’t the kind of a dog to bark up the wrong tree or down the wrong hole. Maybe the stick isn’t long enough.”
The lads looked around until they found a larger pole, Ruddy, meanwhile, watching them curiously and interestedly. But though Rick and Chot took turns poking sticks down the hole, turning them this way and that, and jabbing them in, not a sound—not a growl or snarl—came out from among the twisted roots.
Ruddy stood near his two friends, made little darts forward at the hole at every motion on the part of the boys, and whimpered in eager anticipation, growling now and then and, anon, permitting himself the challenge of a bark. But it was all to no purpose.
“I guess there’s nothing here,” said Chot at last. “We’d better get back to our stone pile.”
“There has been something here,” said Rick. “I can smell that wild animal smell.”
“Like in a circus tent,” suggested Chot.