“There it goes again!” exclaimed Bluff suddenly.
“And it sure is a wolf—eh, Frank?” Jerry cried.
“Oh, I hope so!” Will was heard to say, at which the others were surprised until Frank guessed the reason.
“You’re thinking of that flashlight trap, are you, Will, and hoping to catch bigger game than you set it for? Well, if any of those hungry chaps come smelling around in this direction I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. They can find a piece of fresh meat that’s half a mile away.”
“Just like those buzzards down in Florida could discover where there was any dead animal, and would come flying from every direction,” Bluff remarked.
They soon grew tired of staying out in the cold, and listening to the occasional mournful sound that all had decided came from the throat of a gray pilgrim from Canada.
Now and then it seemed closer; and Bluff even declared that he could distinguish several different grades of howls.
“Must be a pack of the rascals!” he ventured to say. “Who knows but some of us may run up against the bunch while we’re around here? I’d like nothing better, take it from me, than to knock over a few of the measly things. They’re a mean lot and without a single redeeming quality, like a fox.”
Once more returning to the warm cabin, they sat around until finally Frank drove them all to their bunks.
“I’ll never be able to get you out at a decent hour in the morning,” he told them, “if you keep on sitting here, blinking at the fire, and yawning every little while.”