CHAPTER XX.
THE TENT DWELLERS.
Somehow Cuthbert could not get to sleep.
He was constantly thinking of Owen and his fortunes, weaving castles in the air that might be fulfilled, providing the sturdy young Canuck could be convinced that it was right and proper for him to become reconciled with his grandfather, and let bygones be forgotten.
So an hour or two passed.
Cuthbert finally arose and cast his blanket aside, for he had not made use of his sleeping bag on this night.
Stepping out of the tent he looked around; the night was fair and not a sign of trouble could be detected in atmosphere or sky, for the heavenly monitors shone overhead with their usual brilliancy, and there was not much of a tang in the drowsy night wind.
Cuthbert thought it suspiciously quiet, knowing how it often grows calm before a storm.
Really he was beginning to feel worried a bit about the non-appearance of Owen, when he caught the soft sound of footsteps and the object of his solicitude appeared close by.
"Hello, keeping watch?" he asked, a little surprised to find one of his companions up and looking around.