The ashes were stone cold, as he discovered upon placing his hand upon them, Indian style. Perhaps a red native of the North Woods could have even told just how long it had been since fire lingered among the dead embers; but it was more than the boy was able to do.
Again he pushed forward. Rounding the bluff, he now headed straight for the camp.
Perhaps he found himself entertaining a desolate hope that, after all, Jerry might have played a little trick on him, running off, and making camp while he lingered. Frank knew about the old game of “holding the bag,” where boys coax a green comrade to go out into the dark woods far from home, and leave him holding a sack over the end of a hollow log while they pretend to scare up the rabbits or other game, but in reality go home; but he did not think Jerry would play such a lark when things looked so serious around them.
He wondered why he did not see something of the fire.
Surely nothing could have happened to the two in camp? That would be worse and worse, for it was bad enough to think of Jerry in the hands of those rascally hoboes, without adding to the horror.
Now he was crawling up near the place under the shelter of the bluff, craning his neck eagerly for some sign of the boys. At first he could not see them. The fire was burning low, and that was a sign he did not like.
Frank began to feel a cold sensation creep over him. It was beginning to seem so sinister and awe-inspiring that he was deeply impressed.
Then he caught the low buzz of voices, and, listening, was cheered to recognize the tones of Will as he made his boast.
When that sudden amazing flash came, Frank crouched there as if transformed into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife. For the life of him he could not understand what had happened. He thought he heard a scuffling sound on the other side of the camp, but was not sure. Then Will spoke up, his voice quivering with alarm:
“Oh! what was that, Bluff? Did any one shoot, or was it lightning? I didn’t hear the thunder, did you?”