“Crickets, that’s a funny letter, all right,” declared Tim Lovell, as Cranny finished reading.
“I should say more than funny,” added Tom. “Wonder what P. G. S. stands for?”
“G—goose; S!—what does S mean?” came from Sam Randall.
“What does P mean?” said Dick.
“Maybe it ought to be P. S. G.—Pretty Slow Goose,” suggested Tom, suddenly recalling the shafts of sarcasm with which Willie had bombarded him on numerous occasions. Then, relenting, he added, “But, after all, he’s a rather nice little kid.”
“Sure!” admitted Cranny.
A little later, they sat down to supper, and, in spite of their troubled state of mind, managed to dispose of every scrap.
“Oh, but don’t I wish the weather was better,” said Dick, when the meal was over.
“I reckon we’ll be able to scout around a bit, after all,” Pete assured them. “The moon is beginning to light up the clouds.”
The cow-puncher’s observation was true; a faint silvery sheen soon became sufficiently strong for the waving tree tops to be outlined against it. Above the steady roar of the wind were heard weird snapping sounds, as branches occasionally fell, or grated against their neighbors; and the soft patter of leaves was broken by rustling noises strangely suggestive of footsteps coming and going amidst the brush.