“That’s not the thing,” he rasped furiously. “I tell you what I shot at had a white head with big fiery eyes. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Let’s see if he hit the bag,” suggested Grant. “That will tell.”
It did tell, for the light of the lantern showed them a ragged hole torn through the very center of the sleeping bag by the two charges of shot, and once more Sleuth’s companions gave vent to unbridled merriment.
“Oh, this is the fuf-funniest thing yet,” howled Springer, clinging to his sides. “Old Sleuthy shot his own sus-sleeping bag. And it had a white face with fiery eyes as big as saucers, and he blew the head of the thing right off and saw it go sus-sailing through the air! Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’ll lose my breath!”
In sullen gloom Piper stood staring at the riddled sleeping bag. “I don’t care what you say,” he snarled; “it did have a white face with blazing eyes. Laugh, you mutts—laugh your heads off!”
“I won’t get over this for a week!” choked Crane.
Even Stone was convulsed, and Rodney Grant was compelled to lean against the tree for support.
“It had a terrible voice—don’t forget the voice,” said Ben.
“And he heard something wailing like a lost soul out toward Spirit Island,” put in Rod.
“Yes, I did; yes, I did!” rasped Piper repeatedly. “There—there it is now! Hear it yourselves! Now what do you think? Now what have you got to say?”