Listen!"

_To-whoo-hoo-hoo, to-whoo-whoo._ A full, deep-toned note, like the distant baying of a hound, was wafted back through the woods. The strained expression on several faces relaxed, but they still looked puzzled.

"That's more familiar," smiled Mr. Curtis. "It's a great horned owl. You look as if you didn't believe it yet, Bob," he added, "but that's what it is, all the same. I've never heard it give that other sound, but I ought to have known--" He broke off, chuckling. "He certainly gave us a shock! I suppose we'll never hear the end of it. Let's get back to the fire; it's sort of chilly here."

They lost no time in following the suggestion. Back in the cabin they fed the blaze with fresh wood, and, sleep being out of the question for a while, gathered close around it, giggling and chattering and laughingly comparing their emotions on awakening to that blood-curdling scream coming out of the night.

"I was scart stiff," frankly confessed Court Parker.

"Same here," echoed several voices.

But Bob Gibson declined to treat the incident with the careless levity of the others. "I'd like to shoot the beast!" he growled vindictively, thinking of the way his nerves and feelings had been played upon.

"It would be the best thing that could happen," put in Mr. Curtis, decidedly. "We'll have to see if we can't manage it. Most owls are not only harmless, but a real benefit, living as they do mainly on rats and mice. But this creature can do more damage than any other bird except one or two species of hawks. A single one of them will destroy whole covies of quail, kill partridges, ducks, and song-birds, to say nothing of all sorts of domestic fowls. I'll have to bring out a shotgun and see if I can't pot him, or there won't be any birds left for us to feed."

He made several trips to the neighborhood of the cabin during the following ten days, but it was not until the week after Christmas that he got sight of the big marauder and with a fine shot brought him down from the top of a tall hemlock. Several of the scouts who were with him rushed forward to secure the bird, and were surprised at the size of the buff-and-white body, with its great spread of wing, fierce, hooked beak, and prominent ear-tufts.

"We ought to have him stuffed," said Frank Sanson, holding it up at full length. "He'd certainly make a dandy trophy for the cabin."

Mr. Curtis agreed to undertake it, and that night sent the bird to a taxidermist in the city. It came back several weeks later, mounted in the most lifelike manner, and became one of the princ.i.p.al decorations of the cabin. Court at once christened it "Bob's alarm-clock," much to the mystification of the fellows who had not been present on that memorable night. They knew that something unusual had happened, but were never able to find out just what, for the "advance-guard," as the seven called themselves, kept the incident carefully to themselves, and Mr. Curtis never told.

Long before this an ample supply of grain had been taken out to their headquarters and several feeding-stations established in different parts of the woods. These consisted mainly of rough shelters made of saplings, hemlock boughs, or stacks of old corn-stalks, furnished by Mr.

Grimstone, in which the grain was scattered. There could be no question of their value, for from the first the snow about them was covered with bird-tracks of every variety. Before long, too, scouts visiting these stations to replenish the supply reported that the birds were growing noticeably tamer. Instead of flying off at the first sight of the boys, they sat in the trees and bushes around the shelters with an air almost of expectancy. Later they took to swooping down on the grain the moment it was poured out, without waiting for the scouts to move away. The climax came when one day Dale Tompkins excitedly reported that: "A chickadee came and lit right on the bag to-day, sir.

He didn't seem a bit afraid, and only hopped off when I began to scatter the grain."

"They'll do more than that if you treat them right," returned the scoutmaster. "I've known of several cases where not only chickadees, but wrens and juncos and snow-sparrows and even wilder birds have grown so fearless that they've fed readily from the hand. Why don't you fellows try it? The main thing is to get them used to your bringing food to a certain place, and, when they're about, not to make any sudden movement that might frighten them. It would be rather fun to see how many varieties you could tame."

The idea met with general favor and when put into practice was remarkably successful. There also developed not a little good-natured rivalry among the boys as to which would first report the presence of a new bird at the feeding-stations; all of which helped to keep up the interest in the work and prevent it becoming monotonous and tiresome.

CHAPTER XIV

THE BOY WHO COULDN'T SWIM

The usual January thaw carried away most of the snow and made things generally sloppy and unpleasant. But it was followed by another cold snap, which put a gla.s.sy surface on the lake and drew the boys thither in greater numbers than ever. Almost every afternoon as soon as school was out a crowd of scouts, with skates slung about their necks and hockey-sticks in hand, might have been seen hurrying along the turnpike.

Those who owned wheels made use of them; the others rode "shanks' mare,"

skylarking as they went and hilariously seizing every chance of a lift that came along.

Nor were they all members of Troop Five by any means. Mr. Grimstone had needed very little persuasion to grant the privileges of the lake to Hillsgrove scouts generally, and many were the exciting games of hockey that enlivened the winter afternoons. More often than not the clear, cold ring of steel on ice, the grate of swiftly turning runners, the sharp crack of wood against wood, the excited shouts and yells of shrill young voices, resounded on the lake until the gathering twilight made it difficult to distinguish one swiftly moving figure from another.

From its rocky elevation the log-cabin overlooked the active scene, smoke rising from its hospitable chimney and the red glow of a blazing fire gleaming in the windows and winking through the often opened door. Here congregated those who were too indifferent or unskilful to indulge in hockey, while every now and then a player would dash in to thaw out. On Fridays there was pretty sure to be a crowd spending the night there, and then the odor of crisping bacon or broiling chops mingled with the fragrance of the pines; the laughter and joshing kept up throughout the evening, and from the gray farmhouse across the lake an old man, glimpsing the cheery yellow gleam, would chuckle to himself and rub his knotted hands softly together.

"Them boys are havin' a good time ag'in to-night," he would murmur.

"Reckon I'll hev' to step over an' see 'em in the mornin'."

Whenever he appeared he was sure of a hearty welcome, for underneath that crustiness, caused by years of loneliness and narrow living, the scouts had found a spirit as young and simple and likable, almost, as a boy's. And the old man, reveling in this novel, pleasant intercourse, felt sometimes as if he were beginning life all over again.

In this wise the winter pa.s.sed with its usual mingling of work and play.

Coasting, hockey, snow hikes, and the like mixed healthfully with regular lessons, the bird-feeding, studying up for merit badges or first- or second-cla.s.s tests, and other scout duties and activities. The skating, particularly, was unusually prolonged, and the first signs of March thaws met with general regret.

"Well, we can have one more good game, anyhow," remarked Frank Sanson, as they came out of school at noon. "Maybe it will be a little soft, but it will bear all right. Who's going out?"

There were a number of affirmative replies, though the general opinion seemed to be that the ice would be too sloppy to have much fun.

"I'm going to try it, anyhow," Frank declared, as he got on his wheel.

"See you fellows out there."

"Don't take any chances before we come," Sherman Ward called after him.

"Remember you can't swim."

Sanson sniffed and shouted back a hasty denial of the charge.

Nevertheless, as he rode home for dinner he was glad the time was coming when no one would be able even to hint at his deficiencies in that line.

When it came to taking care of themselves in the water the boys of Hillsgrove had been more or less handicapped in the past, and like a number of others, Frank could swim only a few strokes. This spring, however, with the lake at his disposal, he meant to devote every spare minute to gaining proficiency in the art, so that when the time came for their summer camp he need ask no odds from anybody.

He finished dinner early and, with skates and hockey-stick, rode briskly out to the lake. He expected to be the first one there, but on the wood-road he noticed the fresh tracks of another bicycle, and, reaching the cabin, he found Paul Trexler standing before the fireplace, in which a lively blaze was going.

"Gee! You couldn't have had much dinner," he remarked.

"I brought it with me," exclaimed the boy, who was a rather silent lad with an unusual capacity for enjoying his own company. "Anybody else coming out?"

"Sure; quite a bunch. Tried the ice yet?"

"No; I was just going to."

"Come ahead, then," urged Sanson, briskly. "It'll be about our last chance, and I don't want to lose any time."

They put on their skates at the edge of the lake and then tested the ice. It was noticeably soft, especially near the sh.o.r.e, but seemed firm enough. Farther out it was better, and as they skated up and down together Frank decided that they would have their game even if they did get pretty wet before it was over.

"Guess I'll go up a ways and sort of explore a little," said Trexler, presently. It was almost his first remark since leaving the cabin, and his tone did not indicate any special desire for company.

"All right," nodded Sanson. "Go ahead, only be careful about the ice.

Mr. Grimstone says there are springs up there, and you know this is just the weather to make them dangerous." For a moment or two he stood watching the thin, stooping figure sweeping up the lake; then he smiled.

"He's a queer duck," he murmured. "I should think he'd get awful tired of just playing around with himself that way. Wish the others would hurry up."

There were no signs of them, however, so he set himself to master an intricate figure he had been trying for several days past. Though there were no swimming facilities about the village, the annual flooding and freezing over of a flat meadow on the outskirts gave the fellows a very decent chance for skating, of which most of them had availed themselves. Sanson was one of the most proficient in the sport and enjoyed it thoroughly, especially now that the s.p.a.cious lake gave them so much greater scope. His runners cut the ice in sweeping, graceful curves, and each time the momentum carried him nearer to the completion of the figure. Once or twice he noticed Trexler up toward the outlet, but it was in a vague sort of way, with a mind concentrated on his own evolutions.

"It's coming all right," he said aloud, pausing for a second to get his breath. "I've got the hang of it now. One more try and I can make it."

But Fate willed otherwise. As a matter of fact, Frank did not make that final effort which was to bring him success. He skated over to a clear spot on the ice and was swinging along to get up speed when a sudden panicky cry from up the lake made him stop and whirl around with a grind of steel runners that threw up a shower of icy particles.

Trexler was nowhere to be seen! For a fraction of a second Frank stared open-mouthed at the bare expanse of ice narrowing to the outlet, spanned by the old stone bridge. Then his sweeping glance paused at a dark, irregular patch in the glistening surface where something seemed to move feebly, and with a smothered cry he dug his skates into the ice and sped up the lake.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The stick slid over the jagged edges of the hole]

The distance was not really great, but to the frightened boy it seemed interminable. Almost at once he recognized the spot as open water in the midst of which Trexler's white face and clawing hands striving frantically for a hold on the treacherous, splintering edges stood out with horrible distinctness--Trexler, who could not swim a stroke!