“We’d better remain awake, all of us,” continued Dick. “I’ll take the lower bunk in the corner near the door. You can sleep in the upper one. Toma can occupy the lower bunk next to mine. Just before we retire, while Frischette is still in the room, I’ll remove my coat and throw it over the back of a chair.”
“We’ll all keep perfectly still,” said Sandy, “when he enters the room. Remember, Toma, that you are not to make any effort to stop him.”
The young Indian nodded:
“Yes, I understand. Me do nothing.”
Later, when they had retired for the night, they were in an excited frame of mind. Had they been ever so tired, it is doubtful whether they would have been able to relax for sleep. Dick lay, facing the doorway, so that he could command a view of the entire room. Frischette’s sleeping apartment, almost directly opposite, opened on to the large bunk-hall they occupied. If the Frenchman planned to take the roll, it would be necessary for him to pass through the doorway, directly across from Dick, and steal stealthily along the row of bunks to the chair, over which Dick had carelessly flung his coat.
The bunk-hall was shrouded in a partial darkness. Outside the night was clear, and a half-moon rode through a sky sprinkled with stars. To the ears of the boys, as they lay quietly awaiting the Frenchman’s coming, there floated through the open windows the droning sounds of the forest. An owl hooted from some leafy canopy. The weird, mournful cries of a night-bird, skimming along the tree tops, could be heard distinctly. The curtain, draping the window on the west side of the room, fluttered softly as it caught the rippling, nocturnal breeze.
As time passed, Dick became conscious of an increasing nervous tension and restlessness. He found it difficult to lay still. He turned from side to side. The strain upon his eyes from watching the door so continuously had caused a blur to appear before them, and only with difficulty could he make out the various objects in the room. Time and time again, he imagined he could hear a slight sound coming from Frischette’s apartment. Yet, as he lay there and the door did not open, he realized that he must have been mistaken.
At length he decided that the road-house keeper would make no effort to come that night. Reasoning thus, he lay very still, his eyes closed, drowsiness stealing over him. Through his mind there flashed confused pictures of the day’s happenings. In imagination, he was threading a woodland path, following the fleeing form of a man, who clutched to him a mysterious wooden box. Again he saw the angry, distorted face of Frischette, who was standing there, one arm raised threateningly above the stooped form and uncovered head of Creel—the queer old recluse.
Tossing restlessly, his eyes came back to the door, and suddenly his nerves grew taut. The door, he perceived, was now slightly ajar. It was opening slowly. A few inches at a time it swung back, and at length a muffled form stood framed in the doorway, then moved noiselessly nearer. Unerringly, it padded across the floor, straight towards Dick’s bunk. It paused near the chair, scarcely four feet from where Dick lay.
With difficulty, Dick suppressed a cry. The skulking, shadowy form was not that of Frischette—but Creel! Creel, a horrible, repellent figure in the half-darkness. Long, straggling locks of hair fell over his eyes, while the heavy beard formed a mask for his repulsive face. Dick could almost imagine that he could see Creel’s deep-set eyes shining from their sockets. They were like those of a cat.