The Bungalow Boys North of Fifty-Three. Goldfrap John Henry
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Название: The Bungalow Boys North of Fifty-Three
Автор: Goldfrap John Henry
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Зарубежная классика
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“But isn’t there a chance that he may come back?”
Jack spoke rather timidly. He was tired and a little nervous, and the thought that the fellow who had robbed them might be prowling about somewhere rather scared him.
“No danger of that. I wish he would. Then we could end this thing up right here.”
“Been inside yet?” asked Jack, by way of changing the subject.
“No; I waited for you. Come on, let’s go in and see what sort of a place it is and who lives in it. I guess it belongs to a trapper, all right, from the looks of it.”
An inspection of the big room inside proved the correctness of Tom’s surmise. Traps of all sorts and sizes were littered about the room or hanging on nails. A rough table, chairs formed out of boxes, the stove, whose smoke had first caught their attention, and some pots, pans and other equipment completed the furnishings. In one corner was a rough bunk containing dirty bedding.
One thing caught Tom’s eye immediately, and that was a barrel in one corner of the place. All about it several small skins such as beaver, marten and weasel were scattered on the floor. Closer inspection showed that the barrel contained some more of the same kind of pelts. It looked as if somebody had hastily rummaged through the barrel of skins and selected what he wanted.
“I’ll bet that rascal who stole the black fox has been on a raiding expedition here, too,” cried Tom indignantly. “What a shame!”
“Yes, looks as if he’d helped himself,” agreed Jack, unstrapping his pack and taking off his snowshoes.
They spread their provisions out on the table, got in plenty of wood and water, and lighted a coal-oil lamp which they found on a shelf. When the door was shut and secured by a big wooden bar which was adjusted from within, they set about getting supper. In the yellow lamplight, with the kettle singing on the stove and some jerked meat bubbling in a sort of stew Tom had fixed up, the place looked quite cosy and homelike.
“Wonder how poor old Sandy is getting along?” said Jack, as they sat down to eat.
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” replied Tom. “Of course, he’ll be lonesome and all that, but he’s quite safe unless some other fellow takes it into his head to come a-raiding.”
“Well, lightning never strikes twice in the same place,” responded Jack, “and it is hardly likely that a second thief would come along so soon.”
“Just what I think,” agreed Tom.
Having finished their supper, they washed up the dishes and set about preparing to make everything snug for the night. From time to time they could hear the distant howling of the wolves, bur that only made the hut seem more snug and secure.
“I wonder what the owner would say if he found us making ourselves so very much at home?” said Jack, as he inspected the none too clean bedding.
“Oh, he would be glad to see us, I guess,” replied Tom. “Visitors are welcome in this wilderness, and as for making ourselves at home that is the right of every traveler in the woods when he needs hospitality and the host happens to be out.”
“Still, I don’t imagine the hospitality includes helping yourself to skins, like that rascal we’re trailing did.”
“I hardly should think so,” rejoined Tom dryly. “Fellows like that don’t have a bed of roses when they are caught. It is as bad as horse stealing in the West.”
“I know I can think of a good many punishments fitting for the rascal who stole our black fox.”
“So can I, without straining my imaginative powers, either.”
Both lads were thoroughly exhausted by their labors of the day, and after a little more talk they made up a good roaring fire to keep the hut warm through the night, and turned into the bunk. For some little time they lay awake, listening to the crackling of the blaze and the sighing of the wind which was stirring outside.
From time to time, too, they could still hear the howling of the wolf pack, and occasionally the night air would ring with the sharp cry of some small animal pounced upon by a great snow owl or a weasel. But both lads were well used to these sounds of the northern night, and it was not long before their senses began to swim and they dropped off into sound and refreshing sleep.
Just what time it was when they both awakened together they did not know, but the cause of their sudden arousing was a startling one. Borne to their ears there had come a strange sound, a long, low, howling sort of moan.
“Wow-ow! Ow-hoo-ha-hoo-wow-w-w-w-w-w!”
That is about as nearly as the sound can be indicated in print.
Both boys sat bolt upright, wide-eyed with alarm. Jack felt the skin on the back of his scalp tighten as he listened. The lamp had been left alight, although it was turned low, and in the dim light each lad could read fear and perplexity in the other’s countenance.
“Wh-wh-what is it?” gasped out Jack.
“I der-der-don’t know,” stuttered Tom, equally at a loss and almost as badly disturbed by the weird nature of the wailing cry.
CHAPTER IX – TOM CALMS JACK’S FEARS
“Wow-yow-wyow-ow-oo-oo-oo!”
Again came the cry, punctuating the night in the same ghastly, unaccountable manner.
“Is it wer-wer-wer-wolves?” stammered Jack.
Tom shook his head.
“Nothing like them. It beats me what it can be. I never heard such a sound.”
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