The scoutmaster choked and gurgled speechlessly, waving one arm helplessly toward the woods ahead. Several of the keenest-eyed thought they saw a vague, dark shadow moving silently across the snow; but it meant nothing to them, and they turned back to their leader, as bewildered as before.
“What a sell!” gasped the latter, striving to regain his self-control; “what an awful sell!” He succeeded in choking down his laughter, but there were tears of mirth in his eyes as they swept the staring circle. “It’s nothing but an owl, fellows,” he chuckled.
“An owl!” exclaimed Ted MacIlvaine, incredulously. “An owl–making a noise like that!”
The scoutmaster nodded and wiped his eyes. “An owl,” he repeated. “There! Listen!”
To-whoo-hoo-hoo, to-whoo-whoo. A full, deep-toned note, like the distant baying of a hound, was wafted back through the woods. The strained expression on several faces relaxed, but they still looked puzzled.
“That’s more familiar,” smiled Mr. Curtis. “It’s a great horned owl. You look as if you didn’t believe it yet, Bob,” he added, “but that’s what it is, all the same. I’ve never heard it give that other sound, but I ought to have known–” He broke off, chuckling. “He certainly gave us a shock! I suppose we’ll never hear the end of it. Let’s get back to the fire; it’s sort of chilly here.”
They lost no time in following the suggestion. Back in the cabin they fed the blaze with fresh wood, and, sleep being out of the question for a while, gathered close around it, giggling and chattering and laughingly comparing their emotions on awakening to that blood-curdling scream coming out of the night.
“I was scart stiff,” frankly confessed Court Parker.
“Same here,” echoed several voices.
But Bob Gibson declined to treat the incident with the careless levity of the others. “I’d like to shoot the beast!” he growled vindictively, thinking of the way his nerves and feelings had been played upon.