Here's a state of things! We can't roost in these
trees all night."
The hemlocks were throwing ever-lengthening shadows on the grass. A slow
eclipse was stealing over everything. The motionless moose became an
uncouth black shape. Garst muttered uneasily. His fingers tingled for
his rifle--a very unusual thing with him. His eyes peered through the
creeping darkness in puzzled search for some suggestion, some
possibility of escape.
"If it were only myself!" he whispered, as if talking to his hemlock.
"If it were only myself, I wouldn't care a pin. 'Twould do me no great
harm to perch here for hours. But an English youngster, on his first
camping-trip! Why, the chill of a forest night might ruin him. He
wouldn't howl or make a fuss, for both those Farrar boys have lots of
grit, but he'd never get over it. Dol!" he wound up, raising his voice
to a sharp pitch. "Say, Dol, I'm going to try a shout for help. Herb
must be getting anxious about us by this time. If we could once make him
hear, he could try some trick to lure this old curmudgeon away, or creep
up and shoot him.
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