“If there is nothing to harm you and you are not afraid, why take the gun?” asked Stanley.
Bub dropped the rifle and slowly opened the door. It was very black outside. As he hesitated a mouse scampered across the log over his head, and with a startled exclamation he slammed the door and leaped back into the room.
Stanley gave way to a hearty burst of laughter, it being about the first time he had found an opportunity to smile at Bub’s expense.
“Hush, my son,” finally Bub quieted, raising a hand. “I don’t blame you for laughing. The mouse made a fool of me; but I’ve felt uneasy all the evening. My daring you was merely to find an excuse for us to leave here. Now, listen; I’ll hear it again soon. Hark! there!”
“A whistle,” whispered Stanley.
“Another whistle,” muttered Bub, reaching for his rifle.
“Something in the woods, a bird, probably,” suggested Stanley, his wrists developing “goose-flesh.”
“It’s two men signaling to each other,” murmured Bub. “They think we are here for the night. We’ll make our exit through the window.”
