It seemed to young Prescott that he had no more than dropped off
into slumber when Tom shook him by the shoulder.
"Half-past ten," whispered Reade, as Dick sat up. "Go out to
the wash basin and dash cold water into your eyes. That will
open 'em and freshen you up."
"Have you seen anything of the prowler?" whispered Dick, as he
got upon his feet.
"Not a sign," declared Tom.
"It would be too early for him to prowl about yet," whispered
Dick, as he passed out into the Summer night. "Good night, Tom."
Only a faint stirring of the light breeze in the tree tops, the
droning hum of night insects, and the occasional call of a night
bird---these were all the sounds that came to the ears of the
young camp guard.
Dick dashed the water into his eyes, then felt wonderfully wide
awake.
"If Mr. Prowler comes, he'll probably go for the canned vegetables
and the biscuit," Prescott decided. "He must already have more
meat than he can handle all day to-morrow---if it doesn't spoil."
So Dick posted himself where he could easily watch the approach
of any outsider toward the boxes that served as cupboards for
the canned supplies.
The time slipped away, until it was nearly midnight, as Prescott
knew from stepping into the tent and lighting a match briefly
for a swift glimpse at his watch.
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