“Positive. I know I heard it.”
“Come along then,” said Grant. “We’ll go outside and get one of the canoes and see what we can find. Maybe we’ll hear it again.”
“I don’t know; it sounded to me as though it was the death cry of some one. I never heard such a thing in all my life.”
“Get your sweater and some trousers,” directed Grant. “Don’t wake Fred and Pop yet. We’ll see what we can do first.”
John and Grant rose carefully to their feet and laid aside their blankets. Feeling their way, they soon located their clothes and a moment later, partly dressed, they stepped forth from the tent. The night was clear, and the moon, in its last quarter, lighted up the trees and the water in a ghostly manner.
“Are the paddles—” began Grant, when the cry was repeated. This time it seemed only a short distance from their camp and out on the lake. Perhaps some one had upset a boat and was struggling in the water.
“There it is,” cried John, clutching Grant excitedly by the arm. “Did you hear that? Isn’t that terrible?”
“Is that what you heard before?” demanded Grant.
“Yes, the same voice. Hurry! We mustn’t waste a second.”
“Wait a minute, String,” and in Grant’s voice was the suggestion of a laugh.