It was followed by
a third, terminating in an impatient roar. The weird solo ran through
several scales in its performance, rising, wailing, booming, sinking,
ever varying in expression. It marked a new era in Neal's experience of
sounds, and left him choking with bewilderment about what sort of
forest creature it could be which uttered such a call.
He began to get out some bungling description when Cyrus joined him
shortly afterwards, but the American had had a lively time of it while
recovering his jack-light and righting the canoe on mid-pond. He was in
no mood for explanations.
"Keep the yarn, whatever it is, till to-morrow, Neal," he said. "I
didn't hear anything special. Perhaps I was too far away. I'm so wet and
jaded that I feel as limp as a washed-out rag. Let's get back to camp as
fast as we can."
CHAPTER III.
LIFE IN A BARK HUT.
It was two o'clock in the morning when the tired, draggled pair stumbled
ashore at the place where they embarked, hauled up their birch skiff,
leaving it to repose, bottom uppermost, under a screen of bushes, and
then stood for some minutes in deliberation.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31