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On the ground was a young fellow about seventeen years of age. He was
writhing with pain, and the blood was oozing through his clothes in
fifty places.
"Ha, ha!" shrieked Song. "Me shootee wolf, turnee into man light away.
Ha, ha, me allee same plenty smart man, likee magician."
"Yes, you're a hot magician," said Bud; "You've made this feller second
cousin ter a porous plaster. That's what you've done."
"Who is he, Song?" asked Ted.
"Me no savvy him. Me comee out chicken house getee eggs fo' bleakfast. I
cally gun, shotee plenty wolf all samee Mliss Stella say."
"But this is not a wolf."
"All samee wolf. I open chicken house do'. I see wolf. Plenty glowl at
Song. I no likee gun. Shutee my eye. Pull tligger, an' gun goee off. All
samee wolf no mo' glowlee, him yellee like thundeh. When smokee blow way
wolf gonee, all samee man comee. I plenty magician, I thinkee."
Ted looked in the chicken house, and on the floor lay the dried hide of
a big gray wolf.
Now he understood. The message had come the third time from the Flying
Demons.


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