Then it was Sprouse who
spoke. "This is the short cut to Green Fancy," he whispered, laying
his hand on Barnes's arm. "We save four or five miles, coming this
way. Do you know where we are?"
"I haven't the remotest idea."
"About a quarter of a mile below Curtis's house. Are you all right?"
"Fine as a fiddle, except for a barked knee, a skinned elbow, a couple
of more or less busted ribs, something on my cheek that runs hot,--
yes, I'm all right."
"Pretty tough going," said Sprouse, sympathetically.
"I've banged into more trees than--"
"Sh!" After a moment of silence, intensified by the mournful squawk of
night-birds and the chorus of katydids, Sprouse whispered: "Did you
hear that?"
Barnes thrilled. This was real melodrama. "Hear what?" he whispered
shrilly.
"Listen!" After a second or two: "There!"
"It's a woodpecker hammering on the limb of a--"
"Woodpeckers don't hammer at midnight, my lad. Don't stir! Keep your
ears open."
"You bet they're open all right," whispered Barnes, his nerves
aquiver.
Suddenly the sharp tattoo sounded so close to the spot where they were
standing that Barnes caught his breath and with difficulty suppressed
an exclamation.
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