A few minutes, and he
stood, a towering figure, on the platform above, waving his battered hat
in salute to the old camp.
"I guess some traveller has been sheltering here lately!" he cried to
Neal Farrar, as the latter overtook him. "There's a litter around,"
pointing to dry sticks and withered bushes strewn upon the
camping-ground. "And the door's standing open. I wonder who found the
old shanty?"
Neal remembered, hours afterwards, that at the moment he felt an odd
awakening stir in him, a stir which, shooting from head to foot, seemed
to warn him that he was nearing a sensation, the biggest sensation of
this wilderness trip.
He heard the voices of Cyrus and Dol hallooing behind; but they sounded
away back and indistinct, for his ears were bent towards the deserted
camp, listening with breathless expectation for something, he didn't
know what.
One minute the vague suspense lasted, while he followed Herb towards the
hut. Then heaven and earth and his own heart seemed to stand still.
Through the wide-open door of the shanty came random, crooning snatches
of sound.
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