Two boys lying on their stomachs near the edge of the tent, industriously listening.
This was not their own tent.

There seemed to be few grumblers in that.
It was the tent in which Henry Dorgan was housed.

And listen as they might, and sharp as Injun's ears were, they heard nothing definite.

Just murmurs, an occasional oath or two, and what might have been threats, in louder tones.

It was very discouraging.