“What?” cried Phil, incredulously. “He thinks he hears the sound of chopping?”
“Yaas,” answered Kurilla. “Axe, chop um, white men, plenty. Yaas.”
“I, too, can hear something!” exclaimed Serge, who had imitated Chitsah’s movements, “though I wouldn’t swear it was chopping.”
“Hurrah! So can I!” shouted Phil, after a moment of intent listening at another tree. “First time, though, I ever knew that the public telephone service was extended to this country. The sound I heard might be a train of cars twenty miles away, or a woodpecker somewhere within sight. No matter. If Chitsah says it’s chopping, it must be, for he ought to know, seeing that he first heard it with the aid of the tree-telephone. So let’s go for it. We can afford to travel an hour or two in the dark for the sake of meeting the white man who is swinging that axe, can’t we?”
“Of course we can,” replied Serge.
“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Jalap Coombs.
“Mebbe catch um. Yaas,” added Kurilla, sharing the general enthusiasm.
Even the tired dogs barked, pricked up their sharp ears, sniffed the air, and did not, seemingly, object to moving on.
So the long teams were again swung into line, the pistol-like reports of the three sledge-whips rang sharply through the keen air, and the whole party swept on down the darkening river at a greater speed than they had made that day.