“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 again from Springer, as he rubbed his sides with both hands. “It’s a loon—nothing but a loon. They always holler lul-like that.” “A loon!” muttered Sleuth, crestfallen. “It is? Well, anyhow, I know what I saw, and I’ll stick to it about the white face and the fiery eyes.” Crane had placed the lantern on the ground almost beneath the dangling sleeping bag, and now Grant stooped and picked up something revealed by the light. “Here’s a white feather,” he said. “A stray shot from Sleuth’s gun may have knocked it out of some sort of a bird. That’s it, I reckon; he saw a white owl that had lighted on the very branch this bag hangs from. That accounts for the big fiery eyes and the terrible voice.” Piper was struck dumb; he tried to say something, but the words choked in his throat and he abandoned the effort. Mercilessly his companions joshed him, and he realized that his exploits on this first night in camp were destined to provide a topic for raillery for some time to come. With his head down, he turned and plunged into the tent. They found him wrapped in the blankets and stretched on the ground, and to their continued badinage he would utter no word of retort. With the first gray streaks of morning showing in the eastern sky, Springer attempted to arouse Piper and get him up. “Come on, Sleuth,” he said. “You want to fish, and this is the time to get at it.” “Go on,” was the smothered retort. “I’m going to get some sleep. Fish all you want to; I don’t care.” Grant was up in a moment. “I’m with you, Phil,” he said. “Let’s take a plunge and a rub-down to wake us up, then we can try the fishing, and leave the others to start the fire and have things ready for breakfast when we get back.” Flinging off everything, they raced out to the rocky side of the point, and Sleuth heard them go plunging into the water, one after the other. With a shivering sigh, for the damp coldness of the earth had crept up through the ground-cloth and blankets and seemed to pierce his bones, Piper got upon his hands and knees, crawled to the bed of boughs just deserted, pulled the blankets of the others around him and again courted slumber. Hazily he heard the early risers return, rub down with coarse towels and get into their clothes. They were putting their rods and reels together when he drifted off for the first time into sound and peaceful sleep. Rod and Phil made their way slowly along the lake shore toward the south, casting the flies as they went, at which feat Springer, having had more experience, was by far the most skilful.