"Still, I don't know as the idea is wholly bad."
"It would take time, that's a fact," answered Mr. Gilder, lifting his
tray of tools to the table and proceeding to polish some of them with a
bit of buckskin. "And it looks as though time was going to be an
object with us shortly. That last letter from Wiley showed that the
Chicago folks were beginning to sniff pretty suspiciously in this
direction. I've been asked some awkward questions lately, too. Yes,
the more I think of it, the more I am convinced that we ought to be
getting out of here as quickly as we can make arrangements. We must
talk it over with Plater, and come to some decision this very day.
He's-- Hello! Something's up. Plater was to stay in camp till I got
back."
Again came the peculiar, long-drawn whistle that had arrested the
attention of the men, and which denoted the approach of a friend. Mr.
Gilder stepped to the door and answered it. Then he looked expectantly
towards a laurel thicket that formed part of the dense undergrowth
surrounding the hut. In a moment the dripping branches were parted
near the ground, and a man, emerging from the bushes on his hands and
knees, stood up, shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and advanced
towards the open door. He was a large man with long hair and a bushy
beard.
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