See here," broke in Dick suddenly, "if that pigeon wants to go home,
and is able to, why can't we make him take a message for us? I believe
we can--if some one at the other end would only see it."

"Dad always looks the birds over when he feeds 'em in the morning," Dan
declared.

"Wait until I get a piece of paper," rejoined Prescott, almost
breathless from the hold the idea had taken on him. He got the paper,
drew out a pencil, and sat down to write, calling off the words as he
wrote them:

"To the home folks. We're all here at the cabin, snug as can be, with
plenty of water, firewood and food, and having a jolly time. Don't worry
about us. We're having a jolly time."

"Tell 'em I'm here," begged Hen Dutcher. "My folks might like to know."

So Dick added that information and signed his name. Next he rolled the
paper up into a cylinder.

"Dan, catch that precious bird of yours," begged the young leader.
Dalzell presently accomplished that purpose. Dick tied a string around
the pigeon's neck, loosely enough not to choke the bird, and yet
securely enough so that the noose could not slip off. Then the paper
cylinder was made fast to the string.

"Open the window on the side towards Gridley, Greg," called Dick. "When
it's open, Dan, you give your pigeon a start."

As Dan let go the bird fluttered from the sill to the snow. Then, after
a moment, little Mr. Pigeon spread his wings and soared skyward. Soon
the boys had seen the last of the small traveler, still headed in the
direction of home.

"Our folks will soon have the news," declared Dan proudly.

"And, oh--hang it!" gasped Dick disgustedly. "I forgot to add even a
word about Mr. Fits!"

"Well, he isn't here with us, at any rate," Dave answered.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICES OF THE NIGHT

"Wow! Wow-ow-ow-oo-whoo-oo-oo!"

It would be impossible to convey the weird sound in words.

Six boys and a whiner were asleep in their bunks in the log cabin when
that awesome sound first smote the air.

Outside the wind had nearly died down. Dick Prescott, the first to
waken, felt a cold chill creep down his spine.

"Wow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!"

"Wh-wh-what is it?" gasped Dan Dalzell, sitting up in his bunk.

"I don't know," Dick admitted.

Again came the fearsome sound, now louder than ever. Dave Darrin and Tom
Reade were now awake and startled.

"What on earth can it be?" demanded Tom.

"It must be Fred Ripley's ghost party," sugge