“What is a loon, anyway?”
“It’s a bird; it belongs to the duck family, I guess. They live around on lakes and ponds like this and spend their nights waking people up and scaring them.”
“I should say they did,” exclaimed John with a shudder. “I never heard such a lonesome-sounding, terrible wail in all my life.”
“There it is again,” said Grant laughingly, as once more the cry of the loon came to their ears across the dark waters of the little lake.
“Let’s go back to sleep,” exclaimed John earnestly. “That sound makes my blood run cold, even though I know it is made by a bird.”
“Don’t you think we ought to tell Fred and Pop about it?” inquired Grant mischievously. “It seems to me they ought to be warned.”
“You can tell them about it if you don’t mention my name in connection with it,” said John. “If you tell on me though, I swear I’ll get even with you if it takes me a year.”
“All right,” laughed Grant, “I won’t say anything about it. At least, not yet,” he added under his breath.
“What did you say?” demanded John, not having caught the last sentence.
“I said, ‘let’s go to bed.’”