"That's enough to make all the rest of us afraid."
Smiling broadly, the literary boy walked over to the packhorse, seized his bridle, and when Bob had unloosened the rope began leading him toward their camp.
Excitement all over, the seven became conscious of an unpleasant chill in the air. It nipped their hands and faces, making the prospect of hugging close to a roaring fire doubly attractive. So, like a victorious little army, they hurried along, the moon sending their shadows weirdly straggling over the turf, and it didn't take the boys very long to resume their former positions.
Sam took his turn on guard, and after two hours' lonely vigil aroused Tom.
When morning came, an astonishing discovery was made: Dick Travers had disappeared.
It was Jack Conroy, on the final watch, who noted his absence from among the group of sleepers. And by this time a cold, gray light was spreading slowly out in the east. Ghostly streamers of mist hung low, forming cheerless barriers to the view beyond. A screeching hawk winged its way high up. Jack, chilled and hungry, stopped his almost ceaseless pacing to and fro, and came to a halt before the prostrate figures.
"Hello!" He stared hard, and rubbed his blinking eyes. "Hello! Only five o' 'em," he muttered. "That's mighty odd; where in thunder's Dick? He didn't get up while I've been here, that's sure. Hello, Dick!" He raised his voice. "Hello, Dick!"
Some of the sleepers stirred, but that was all. In the stillness, his voice sounded with a weird, sepulchral tone, and he almost shivered.
"Hello, Dick—I say, Travers, where are you?" roared Jack, beginning to suspect that Dick was trying to play a joke on him. "Come on, now; you'll have to get up earlier'n this to get ahead o' me; trot out!"
Bob Somers hastily unrolled himself from the folds of his blanket and scrambled to his feet; so did Sam and Tommy.