might have done in the bar-room of some publichouse at home.

Sinclair was standing guard. The others were listening to
Brady's description of traffic congestion at the Rush Street
bridge during the rush hour at night. The fire crackled cheerily.
The owners of the yellow-green eyes raised their frightful chorus
to the heavens. Conditions seemed again to have returned to normal.
And then, as though the hand of Death had reached out and touched
them all, the five men tensed into sudden rigidity.

Above the nocturnal diapason of the teeming jungle sounded a
dismal flapping of wings and over head, through the thick night,
a shadowy form passed across the diffused light of the flaring
camp-fire. Sinclair raised his rifle and fired. An eerie wail
floated down from above and the apparition, whatever it might
have been, was swallowed by the darkness. For several seconds
the listening men heard the sound of those dismally flapping wings
lessening in the distance until they could no longer be heard.

Bradley was the first to speak. "Shouldn't have fired,
Sinclair," he said; "can't waste ammunition." But there was
no note of censure in his tone. It was as though he understood
the nervous reaction that had compelled the other's act.

"I couldn't help it, sir," said Sinclair. "Lord, it would take
an iron man to keep from shootin' at that awful thing. Do you
believe in ghosts, sir?"

"No," replied Bradley. "No such things."