The words thrilled them once more. Now they were sure that it was no imaginary summons that had lured them from the warm fire; someone was there in the depths of the pine woods, unable to help himself, strange as that might seem.
“Rob, that sounded more like a boy’s voice than a man’s heavy tones,” suggested Andy.
“Just what I was thinking,” said the observing scout master. “Do you know there seemed a little odd twist in his way of speaking that made me think of Scotch Jock back in Hampton. Whoever this chap turns out to be, mark my words, he’s got Scotch blood in his veins.”
“There he calls out again, you notice,” exclaimed Andy presently, “and we’re heading right, it seems. I reckon he sees the light of our lantern, though we can’t yet get the first glimpse of him.”
“But we will very soon now,” Rob assured him. “The last hail was close by.”
They were consumed with both curiosity and eagerness to be of assistance. Neither of them could more than guess at what they were going to see; and it may be admitted that not even wise Zeb came anyway near to hitting the mark.
He may have figured that some one had fallen and injured his leg or ankle; or another sort of accident—a tree falling on him; being cut through by a misstroke of a keen-edged ax; or having his gun go off, when drawing it muzzle forward through some dense brush—as greenhorns often do at peril of their lives; but if they guessed for an hour they would not have dreamed of the remarkable sight that met their gaze.
“There, I think I can just manage to see him, Rob—over by that clump of birches that have sprung up where a mother tree was cut down years ago. Lift your lantern a bit and look.”
Rob hastened to comply, and immediately remarked:
“Yes, I do see something dark on the ground. It moves. See, that must be his arm waving to us! We’ll be with you, my friend, in a jiffy now. It’s all right. We’ll soon have you in camp, safe and sound, whatever has happened to you!”