"Now, I'd rather believe it was the wind," said Ethan, who had a pretty good knowledge of woodcraft in all its branches, and was therefore well fitted to give an opinion.
"Why, how could the night wind make that sort of scratching sound?" asked Lub, doubtless wondering whether the other were simply guying him because of his being a greenhorn.
"Oh! the broken end of a branch might be rubbing against the roof of the cabin," Ethan told him. "I've known that to happen lots of times. There she hits up the tune again, you notice, Lub."
"Yes," added Phil, nodding his head approvingly, "and if you listen, every time that scratching sound comes you can hear the wind soughing through the tree-tops. That ought to prove it."
Still Lub seemed hard to convince, seeing which Ethan jumped up.
"Just stir your stumps, Lub, and come outside with me," he said, positively. "I want to prove what I said, and you've got to be shown."
Lub saw there was no getting around it, and much as he disliked making a move when he was settled so comfortably, he managed to scramble to his feet.
Once out in the bright moonlight and practical Ethan was quick to discover the source of the peculiar and often recurring noise.
"You see, Lub," he went on to say, "there's your saw at work right now. Just as I told you it's a branch that's been worn off to a stub by this scraping. Every time there's a fresh gust of wind it waves back and forth, and scraping against the roof makes that funny sound. Now, I hope your mind's easy, Lub, and that you'll sleep decent to-night."
"I hope I will," replied Lub, earnestly, at the same time remembering about the bunks, and what one of the others had said with regard to house-cleaning in the morning; "but say, it is a fine night, ain't it, Ethan. Listen to the frogs singing their chorus in some little bay of the lake."