"It looks—looks—"
"Like what?" almost roared Jack. "Is it a bird, beast, or portable bush?"
"Fellows, it looks exactly as our packhorse ought to in this light and that far off."
There was an instant of silence, then:
"It can't be possible."
"Oh, shucks! You're jokin'!"
"Get out, Bob!"
"A near-member o' the United Order o' Funny Men."
"But it does, I tell you!" shouted Bob. He almost pitched the field-glass into eager Jack Conroy's hands, seized his gun, and, with "Come on, fellows!" flung over his shoulder, started off at a loping trot.
Like a charge of infantry, with weapons shining in the moonlight, they swept through the high grass, jumped over and around obstructions, gradually increasing their pace until it became a wild, headlong spurt.