“Then,” laughed Grant, rousing from his reverie and picking up the guitar, “you no longer fear that tomorrow may see our scalps dangling in the wigwams of the Wampanoags?”
“The progress of civilization,” returned Sleuth, “the irresistible advance of the ruthless palefaces, has driven the red men steadily toward the setting sun, and I have a conviction that not many Wampanoags remain in this region.”
“But,” said Springer, rising to his feet, “it might be a good thing for somebody to kuk-kuk-keep guard. The rest of us would sleep better. Why don’t you do it, Pipe?”
“Why don’t you?” snapped Sleuth. “You needn’t think you’re going to throw everything on to me.”
“P’r’aps he’s afraid of the spook that’s said to prowl around this lake,” suggested Crane mischievously. “Yeou know folks claim the old lake is haunted by the ghost of a hermit that used to live on Spirit Island, and lots of people have heard the ha’nt wailin’ in the night.”
“Bosh!” sneered Sleuth. “Nobody believes such stuff these days. There ain’t any ghosts.” Despite this assertion, his eyes were seen to roll a bit nervously toward the near-by shadows.
“P’r’aps not,” admitted Sile; “but sometimes some folks see and hear mighty peculiar things that they can’t explain.”
“Well, I’m not going to stay up all night watching for spooks,” retorted Piper; “and, as far as wild animals are concerned, I’ll slip a couple of shells into the gun and keep it right near me, and if anything comes prowling round I’ll fill it full of lead. I’m a light sleeper, anyhow, and it’ll be easy for me to wake up.”
Stone had relighted the lantern and hung it in the tent, that they might see to undress and retire. Grant threw a few more sticks on the coals and followed Ben into the camp, Piper at his heels.
While Sleuth was loading the gun and getting out the sleeping bag Crane, struck by a sudden mischievous idea, whispered eagerly to Springer, who clapped a hand over his mouth to suppress a giggle.