Twice the boy had to make a short halt in order to wipe his streaming brow with his red bandana handkerchief, and rest for a minute or so. But he always started on again with a grim determination to get there.
The third time he stopped it was to listen eagerly. Then he chuckled.
“I ought to know that voice among a hundred,” he remarked. “No one can sing quite as well as Blake Merton. I must be pretty close to the island camp right now. One more push will do the business, I expect. There’s a fellow I know who won’t be sorry, either.”
As he continued to urge the weighty motorcycle onward, Hugh presently saw something moving ahead of him. It was very like a white flag, only in its center it had a blood red square. He certainly ought to know a signal flag, since he had learned to wigwag equal to the best in the troop, and there were several experts among the scouts at that, particularly Bud Morgan, who had once worked with a surveying party, Arthur Cameron, Blake Merton, Walter Osborne, Sam Winter and Cooper Fennimore.
Two boys clad in the familiar khaki of the scouts were standing on a little elevation that was hardly more than a mound. They seemed to be in communication with some one who must be over on the island. No doubt they were indulging in a little talk, partly for the fun of the thing, and to improve their knowledge of the Myers code at the same time.
Hugh stood still and gave the slogan of the Wolf patrol:
“How-oo-ooo!”
This weird, long-drawn-out cry startled the pair with the flags. When they craned their necks and looked around, Hugh waved his hand.
“Hello! Sam and Cooper, how d’ye do?” he called out, starting toward them.
“Why! it’s Hugh!” cried one of the scouts as though rather taken aback by the sudden discovery. They had hardly been expecting that the assistant scout master would get up to Raccoon Island while they were in camp there.