“Glad the ankle isn’t sprained or broken,” he told himself cheerfully. “I believe I could walk with it, and maybe try a run, if I had to.”
He was much refreshed by his sleep, but both hungry and thirsty. His face brightened up considerably as he heard some one clucking in the chicken yard, and glancing down recognized Ned Towner.
Dave did not know who might be in the stable below or in the vicinity. He leaned towards the loft door and gave a low but distinct whistle. It was one he and his chum used often in signalling one another.
“Hello!”
Ned Towner dropped the pan out of which he was throwing corn to the chickens. He looked about him in a startled way. Then he came out of the poultry yard, trying to locate the source of the call.
“It’s Dave,” the lurker in the hay loft heard him mutter. “No one else—Dave.”
“S—st!”
Dave had shown his face and waved his hand from the door aperture.
“Dave!” repeated Ned, in still further wonderment.
“Yes, it’s me,” responded Dave in a hurried, cautious tone of voice. “Anybody else about?”