"Good old Black Bears!" the boy whispered. "They are in the hills
somewhere, and will make themselves known when the right time comes."
After a couple of hours of such unpleasant thoughts as no boy of his
years ought to be obliged to entertain, Fremont arose and again went
to the window looking out on the mountain. The rain came a little
less swiftly now, and the thunder heads were rolling away in heavy
masses, leaving lighter spaces in the sky. He knew that a guard was
at the angle of the building, placed there to prevent his escape,
for he could hear the angry mutterings of the fellow as he moved about.
While he stood before the small window, he heard the call of a wolf
not far away on the mountain. He bent nearer to the window and
listened intently. Yes; that was the whine of a wolf, but such a
whine as he had heard Jimmie give in showing the call of the Wolf Patrol.
His friends--the loyal Boy Scouts--were not far away! He wondered
for a moment why the call of the Wolf Patrol had been given instead
of the call of the Black Bears, and then remembered that there were
really wolves in the mountains, while there were no black bears.
The guard at the corner growled something under his breath as the
second signal came, and finally called out sharply:
"In the hut there!"
There was a short silence, silence except for the falling rain and
the lashing wind, and then the voice of the renegade was heard.
"What do you want?" was asked.
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