He felt that it would be useless to attempt trying to get out of the hollow
he was in before daylight and so proceeded to make an investigation of the
opening.

It proved of no great size, however, and nothing met his gaze but rocks,
dirt, decayed tree roots, and a heap of bones in a far corner, showing that
it had once been the den of a wild beast.

"I am glad the beast isn't here now," thought Henry. "I'd be badly off
without a gun."

Slowly the time wore away and Henry had now to make another search for
firewood, if he expected to keep the blaze going, and what to do he
scarcely knew.

"If I look for wood I'll get wet again," he reasoned. "And if I don't go
and get some the fire will leave me in the cold."

He was on the point of scraping the fire together, to make it last as long
as possible, when an unexpected whistle broke upon his ears. He sprang to
the front of the shelter and listened intently. The whistle was one he knew
well, and the whistler was rendering an old English air, called "Lucy
Locket Lost Her Pocket," an air which we to-day call "Yankee Doodle."

"Dave!" shouted the young hunter, and set up a wild yell. "Dave! Where are
you?"

"Is that you, Henry?" came from the edge of the hollow.

"Yes. Look out, or you'll get a tumble as I did."