Out of the distance came a repetition of the cry which had contributed so much to the wakeful boy’s alarm.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came again from Springer, as he rubbed his sides with both hands. “It’s a loon—nothing but a loon. They always holler lul-like that.”
“A loon!” muttered Sleuth, crestfallen. “It is? Well, anyhow, I know what I saw, and I’ll stick to it about the white face and the fiery eyes.”
Crane had placed the lantern on the ground almost beneath the dangling sleeping bag, and now Grant stooped and picked up something revealed by the light.
“Here’s a white feather,” he said. “A stray shot from Sleuth’s gun may have knocked it out of some sort of a bird. That’s it, I reckon; he saw a white owl that had lighted on the very branch this bag hangs from. That accounts for the big fiery eyes and the terrible voice.”
Piper was struck dumb; he tried to say something, but the words choked in his throat and he abandoned the effort. Mercilessly his companions joshed him, and he realized that his exploits on this first night in camp were destined to provide a topic for raillery for some time to come. With his head down, he turned and plunged into the tent. They found him wrapped in the blankets and stretched on the ground, and to their continued badinage he would utter no word of retort.
With the first gray streaks of morning showing in the eastern sky, Springer attempted to arouse Piper and get him up.
“Come on, Sleuth,” he said. “You want to fish, and this is the time to get at it.”
“Go on,” was the smothered retort. “I’m going to get some sleep. Fish all you want to; I don’t care.”
Grant was up in a moment. “I’m with you, Phil,” he said. “Let’s take a plunge and a rub-down to wake us up, then we can try the fishing, and leave the others to start the fire and have things ready for breakfast when we get back.”