came a long, low moaning cry that thrilled the wakeful lad from his toes to the roots of his hair, for there was something weirdly doleful and terrible in that sound. Instantly he thought of the ghost of the dead hermit, which was said to haunt Spirit Island, and his teeth began to chatter a little. Never had he imagined that a night in the woods could be so fraught with awesome and terrible sounds. He was tempted to awaken the others, but knew they would be angered and scoff at him if he did so. Of a sudden he thought of the gun, and, thrusting out his hand, touched the cold barrel of the weapon, which he had placed near by. Grasping it, he seemed to feel his courage returning.
“If anything comes around here it’ll get hurt,” he whispered to himself. “There won’t be any fooling about it, either. I’ll shoot.”
As if applauding this courageous attitude on his part, he heard a sudden clapping sound, which seemed to come rushing toward the tent and cease abruptly.
“Now what was that?” he speculated, sitting up and holding the gun across his knees. “It was something. I’d just like to know.”
Getting out of the blankets, he rose to a crouching position and stepped toward the front of the tent, the gun gripped fast in his fingers. The darkness outside was not nearly as deep as he had thought it would be, and he could plainly perceive the outlines of tree trunks near at hand. Holding his breath, he crouched at the tent opening, gazing one way and another.
A fresh strong breath of air swept over the point, moving the tree tops and picking up a swirl of ashes from the fireplace, so that the last remaining coals were uncovered and fanned into a glow. And then, within ten feet of the fire, close to the trunk of a tree, he saw what appeared to be a black human-like body, above which rose a ghastly white face with two huge burning eyes. Those eyes of fire, seeming to glare upon him, sent cold chills darting along his spine. Immovable as a statue, he crouched, the gun in his hand forgotten for the moment.
Once more from the vague and distant bosom of the lake came that dreadful, doleful cry; and, as if in answer, a hoarse voice, half human yet demon-like, seemed to burst from the creature with the glowing eyes.
Gasping, Piper pushed the catch of the hammerless with his thumb, flung the butt of the gun to his shoulder, levelled the weapon at that black figure with the ghastly face and fiery eyes, and pulled both triggers.
CHAPTER V.
WITH ROD AND REEL
A great flash of fire burst from the double muzzle of the gun, and a crashing report woke the echoes of the woods and went reverberating across the bosom of the lake. Although staggered a bit by the recoil of the weapon, Sleuth seemed to see the white head of the figure at which he had fired fly off into space and go sailing away, visible for a moment against the sky ere it disappeared.
Needless to say, the sound of the shot brought the sleeping campers off their bed of boughs uttering exclamations of astonishment, alarm and interrogation.
“Wha-wha-what’s the mum-matter?” spluttered Springer.
“Great thutter!” gasped Crane. “Sleuth’s shot at somethin’.”
“What was it, Piper?” asked Stone.
“Yes, what did you fire at?” demanded Grant, reaching the agitated boy and grasping his shoulder.
“Oh, it was the most horrible thing you ever saw,” palpitated Piper. “It was right out there under a tree, a big black creature with a face as white as a sheet and fiery eyes as large as saucers. It had a frightful voice that made my blood run cold as ice.”
“Oh, come, Sleuth, what are you talking about?” remonstrated Rodney. “You’ve been dreaming.”
“Not on your life!” retorted the still trembling lad. “Haven’t even closed my eyes. I couldn’t. I heard all sorts of creatures prowling around in the woods, and something wailing like a lost soul out there on the lake in the direction of Spirit Island. You fellows snoozed like a lot of dead ones,” he continued resentfully. “You’d let Old Nick himself get you before you’d wake up. I never saw such a bunch of mummys.”
Crane’s fingers were not quite steady as he struck a match and lighted the lantern.
“Think yeou hit the critter, Sleuthy?” he asked.
“Hit it! You bet I did! Why, I just blew its old white head right off its shoulders. I saw that head go sailing through the air, too. You’ll find out I hit it when you look around.”
“I reckon,” said Grant, “we’d better investigate. Come on with the lantern, Sile. Where did you say the thing was, Piper?”
“Right out there,” answered Sleuth – “right out under that tree near the fireplace. Hadn’t I better load the gun again before we go out?”
“Here, gug-give me that,” snapped Springer, snatching the piece from Piper’s hands. “You’ll be shooting the top of somebody’s head off yet. Now let’s see what he fuf-fired at.”
Directed by Sleuth, who timorously held back and permitted the others to precede him, they went forth to investigate, Crane leading with the lantern.
“Here ’tis,” said Sile, holding up the light with one hand and pointing with the other. “I’ll bet a dollar that’s what Sleuthy fired at; and, so help me Bob, it’s his sleepin’ bag hangin’ over that limb!”
Springer, his agitated nerves suddenly relaxing, uttered a shout of laughter, in which the others joined, with the exception of Piper himself, who immediately began protesting that he had not fired at the dangling sleeping bag.
“That’s not the thing,” he rasped furiously. “I tell you what I shot at had a white head with big fiery eyes. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Let’s see if he hit the bag,” suggested Grant. “That will tell.”
It did tell, for the light of the lantern showed them a ragged hole torn through the very center of the sleeping bag by the two charges of shot, and once more Sleuth’s companions gave vent to unbridled merriment.
“Oh, this is the fuf-funniest thing yet,” howled Springer, clinging to his sides. “Old Sleuthy shot his own sus-sleeping bag. And it had a white face with fiery eyes as big as saucers, and he blew the head of the thing right off and saw it go sus-sailing through the air! Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’ll lose my breath!”
In sullen gloom Piper stood staring at the riddled sleeping bag. “I don’t care what you say,” he snarled; “it did have a white face with blazing eyes. Laugh, you mutts – laugh your heads off!”
“I won’t get over this for a week!” choked Crane.
Even Stone was convulsed, and Rodney Grant was compelled to lean against the tree for support.
“It had a terrible voice – don’t forget the voice,” said Ben.
“And he heard something wailing like a lost soul out toward Spirit Island,” put in Rod.
“Yes, I did; yes, I did!” rasped Piper repeatedly. “There – there it is now! Hear it yourselves! Now what do you think? Now what have you got to say?”
Out of the distance came a repetition of the cry which had contributed so much to the wakeful boy’s alarm.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came
