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ALONG THE MOHAWK TRAIL
* * * * * *
National Headquarters
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
THE FIFTH AVENUE BUILDING, 200 FIFTH AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
July 31st, 1913
TO THE PUBLIC:
In the execution of its purpose to give educational value and moral
worth to the recreational activities of the boyhood of America, the
leaders of the Boy Scout Movement quickly learned that to effectively
carry out its program, the boy must be influenced not only in his
out-of-door life but also in the diversions of his other leisure
moments. It is at such times that the boy is captured by the tales of
daring enterprises and adventurous good times. What now is needful is
not that his taste should be thwarted but trained. There should
constantly be presented to him the books the boy likes best, yet
always the books that will be best for the boy. As a matter of fact,
however, the boy’s taste is being constantly vitiated and exploited by
the great mass of cheap juvenile literature.
To help anxiously concerned parents and educators to meet this grave
peril, the Library Commission of the Boy Scouts of America has been
organised. EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY is the result of their labors. All the
books chosen have been approved by them. The Commission is composed of
the following members: George F. Bowerman, Librarian, Public Library
of the District of Columbia, Washington, D. C.; Harrison V. Graver,
Librarian, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Pa.; Claude G. Leland,
Superintendent, Bureau of Libraries, Board of Education, New York
City; Edward F. Stevens, Librarian, Pratt Institute Free Library,
Brooklyn, New York; together with the Editorial Board of our Movement,
William D. Murray, George D. Pratt and Frank Presbray, with Franklin
K. Mathiews, Chief Scout Librarian, as Secretary.
In selecting the books, the Commission has chosen only such as are of
interest to boys, the first twenty-five being either works of fiction
or stirring stories of adventurous experiences. In later lists, books
of a more serious sort will be included. It is hoped that as many as
twenty-five may be added to the Library each year.
Thanks are due the several publishers who have helped to inaugurate
this new department of our work. Without their co-operation in making
available for popular priced editions some of the best books ever
published for boys, the promotion of EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY would have
been impossible.
We wish, too, to express our heartiest gratitude to the Library
Commission, who, without compensation, have placed their vast
experience and immense resources at the service of our Movement.
The Commission invites suggestions as to future books to be included
in the Library. Librarians, teachers, parents, and all others
interested in welfare work for boys, can render a unique service by
forwarding to National Headquarters lists of such books as in their
judgment would be suitable for EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY.
Signed
James E. West
Chief Scout Executive.
* * * * * *
[Illustration: “EACH TIME HE WITHDREW THE STICK, THE BEAST GAINED AN
INCH OR TWO.”]
Every Boy’S Library—Boy Scout Edition
ALONG THE MOHAWK TRAIL
or
Boy Scouts on Lake Champlain
by
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Illustrated by Remington Schuyler
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1912,
By Thomas Y. Crowell Company
CONTENTS
I. The Needle in the Haystack
II. A Glimpse at the Haystack
III. A Good Turn and a Salute
IV. The Haystack vs. Gordon Lord
V. The Forest Hits Back
VI. The Sign of the Turtle
VII. When Scout Meets Scout
VIII. The Message of the Flame
IX. Harry Arnold, Scout
X. The Swastika
XI. Frankie Squares Accounts
XII. Shades of the Green Mountain Boys
XIII. An Extraordinary Invention
XIV. On Dibble Mountain
XV. The Owner of the Reticule
XVI. Gordon interferes in Family Matters
XVII. In Hoc Signo Vinces
XVIII. At the Finish Line
XIX. The Fate of the Blue Sweaters
XX. Gordon Goes up in the Air—Also Harry
XXI. Making the Glider
XXII. Harry Finds a Way
XXIII. History Repeats Itself
XXIV. Mr. Danforth has His Way
ILLUSTRATIONS
“Each time he withdrew the stick, the beast gained an inch or two”
Map of the “Haystack”
“‘Hello, what are you doing?’”
“‘I never in my life!’ she exclaimed”
“He leaned over and seized the sinking figure by the collar”
[Illustration: MAP OF THE “HAYSTACK”]
ALONG THE MOHAWK TRAIL
CHAPTER I
THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK
Gordon Lord flung his duffel bag into the bench on the station platform
and, casting himself precipitately beside it, smiled the smile of the
Scouts. It was the genuine, original, warranted scout smile, done to
perfection. It had often been remarked of Gordon that when he smiled his
lips formed a perfect crescent, so that if the words “Be Prepared” had
been printed on his white, even teeth, the effect would have been
perfectly natural. Moreover, it was somewhat to his credit that he
smiled on the present occasion, for several commuters who were in the
same predicament as himself stalked up and down the platform in anything
but an amiable humor. One of them was muttering unflattering comments on
his chauffeur; another was looking scornfully at the gold watch which
had deceived him; two others were discussing the dilatory habits of
domestic servants; and the rest were denouncing the railroad.
Only Gordon Lord smiled—and swung his legs back and forth, and smiled
more and more. He had made a great sprint down the hill, to no avail,
and now, as he sat on the bench pulling up his stocking, which had
treacherously worked its way down his leg in the course of his rapid
progress, an amusing question presented itself to his original mind; and
he resolved then and there to confound Red Deer with it, so soon as he
should set eyes on that individual. As every scout in good standing
knows, it is his duty to _be prepared_, to be on hand when he is
supposed to be on hand, and to be on time always. But it is also his
avowed obligation to do a good turn every day—one good turn, at least.
Paragraph 3, Scout’s Law, sets these requirements forth clearly.
And here was Gordon Lord, scout of the second class, who had stopped to
do a good turn and as a direct consequence had failed to be prepared. He
could not do the good turn and be prepared both; which should he have
done? The scout smile broadened as he pondered over this. Here would be
a poser for Red Deer. He loved to ask Red Deer such questions as this;
it was as good as a circus to hear the two of them engaged in a learned
discussion on the technicalities of Scout Law. And Red Deer (who was
scoutmaster of the Oakwood troop) enjoyed it immensely.
But now Gordon realized that Red Deer and both patrols, the Beavers and
the Hawks, were gliding merrily into the city to catch the Montreal
express.
Twenty minutes before his spectacular arrival at the station (one minute
after the train had left), he had started from home at “scout pace”—not
because this was necessary, but because it was “scoutish” and Gordon was
nothing if not thorough. He wore his complete scout outfit; khaki hat,
neckerchief showing the Beaver hues (blue and yellow), knotted in the
celebrated Beaver knot of his own invention, which had been unanimously
adopted by the patrol with a vote of thanks to the inventor. No one but
a Beaver could untie the knot except Master Gordon’s mother, who had
laboriously discovered the combination one evening when the young Beaver
had relieved himself of the scarf by lifting it over his head. His shirt
was of a rich, olive-colored flannel, his loose short breeches of khaki,
and his khaki-colored stockings were turned over his garters below the
knee, whence one or other of them was continually slipping down. He
carried his duffel bag on the end of his staff like a peddler with his
pack, and as he went down the wide, tree-bordered street of the
fashionable suburb of Oakwood, his popularity was attested by many a
cheery call or farewell wish from the lawns and porches that he passed.
He was a picturesque figure that early summer morning as he started for
the station. He was small and lithe in stature, rather too short for his
fourteen years; his complexion was almost of a mulatto brown, and his
brown eyes held a kind of dancing mischief. Long before he had entered
the scout ranks he was remarked by all as an exceedingly attractive boy,
and it needed only the uniform on his compact, active little figure to
complete an altogether quaint and charming impression.
Thus he sallied gayly down the hill, past the big family mansion of the
Arnolds, and was just turning into the little village park when he came
in sight of Miss Leslie, who was in the midst of an exasperating
dilemma. Miss Leslie taught in the Oakwood school, and had taught Master
Gordon a year or two before. She was at present trying to carry eight
rather thick books, which is a very good thing to do when viewed in the
light of calisthenics. For it is easier to read eight books than to
carry them unless you have a strap or a satchel, and Miss Leslie had
nothing but her small white hands.
When Gordon first caught sight of her, his trained scout vision showed
him that four books were in Miss Leslie’s arm and four on the sidewalk.
She stooped, picked up two and dropped three. She then picked up one and
dropped another. Then she picked up two. Then she picked up another one.
As she stooped for the last one she dropped three. Matters were about
even; at least, she was holding her own. She picked up two more and
dropped one. She was one ahead. Encouraged by her success, she made a
bold descent for the remaining three, secured two of them and dropped
four. The sidewalk had a majority. Miss Leslie glanced covertly up to
see if any one were watching. Not seeing the scout as he neared, she
cautiously gathered the three books from the sidewalk and for one short,
thrilling second held the entire eight under her arm. Then a trifling
accident marred her triumph—she dropped one book. With great caution
she stooped slowly, grasped the recreant volume, arose victorious,
holding it tightly while—the other seven tumbled to the ground.
“Hello, Miss Leslie,” said the young scout.
Miss Leslie, clutching one volume, stood vanquished and humiliated in
the midst of the other seven, and contemplated her former pupil with
mingled surprise and embarrassment.
“Don’t try to pick them up,” said Gordon; “let me show you something.”
He took the volume which she held and, laying it on the sidewalk, picked
up another volume and slipped the front cover of this underneath the
cover of the first one. Then he placed the cover of another one
underneath the back cover of the second, and so on until he had piled
the whole rebellious assortment and effectually locked them together.
“There you are,” said he, and by way of demonstrating the reliability of
the pile, he balanced it on his hand, allowing it to incline this way
and that like the Leaning Tower. The books held fast as if they were
glued together.
“Did you _ever_ in your life?” said Miss Leslie, in complimentary
astonishment at this sleight-of-hand performance, and trying to take the
books from him.
“There are tricks in every trade,” said Gordon.
“And you know them all,” she answered in genuine admiration.
“But they’re just as heavy as they were before,” he remarked; “I’ll
carry them for you as far as the school.”
Her protests were useless, for possession is nine points of the law, and
Gordon held the pile of books. So they went along together toward the
school building, which was not at all in line with the station, he
talking volubly all the way.
“I think you are the boy who once opened a bottle of camphor for me in
the school room by means of a piece of string,” she remarked.
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon, who loved to impart information. “Do you
know how to open bureau drawers that stick?”
“Indeed, I wish I did,” she answered, smiling.
“Lay a heavy stick on the floor in front of the bureau and hit it a good
hard whack with a hammer; if you haven’t a stick, just pound the floor.”
“Really?”
“Honest.”
“Well, that is certainly worth knowing.”
“That’s nothing—did you know you can make dandy ink out of typewriter
ribbons?”
“The idea!”
“That’s how I got this suit—asked the stenographers in my father’s
office to save me their old typewriter ribbons, made ink and sold it;
it’s better than other ink.”
“And is that your scout suit? I heard the boys were starting for camp
to-day.”
“Who told you?”
“I think it was Dr. Brent.”
“He’s Red Deer; he’s going with us.”
“And how do you manage to pack so many things in there?” said she,
patting his thick, curly hair.
“Oh, there isn’t so much in it,” he answered; “a couple of apples, pair
of heavy shoes, a shirt—”
“What?”
“Want to look inside?” he asked, laying the pile of books down and
releasing his duffel bag from the end of his staff.
“Oh, no, I meant inside your head,” said she, laughing; “but here we
are; I shall remember the things you have told me. Good-by, and I hope
your kindness to me will not have made you late for the train.”
She stood on the school steps (it was the last day of the spring term)
watching him as he walked gayly down the street, his khaki hat on the
back of his round head, and his duffel bag on the end of his scout’s
staff. She heard a man across the street call cheerily to him that he
had only two minutes to catch the train, and she distinctly heard him
answer, “That’s nothing,” and saw him start to run down the hill toward
Oakwood station.
But it proved to be a great deal, despite the boy’s laconic comment.
Indeed, it is to be seriously questioned whether missing a train ever
before had such a variety of delectable consequences.
So there he sat where we first saw him, on the station bench, and
thought of the two patrols in charge of Red Deer which were already on
their way to the Adirondacks. They knew that he had had a bad headache
the day before, and they would doubtless assume that to be the cause of
his non-appearance. He pictured their gay trip up the shore of the
lordly Hudson, their luncheon at Albany, their leaving the train at
Ticonderoga and tramping forth in quest of a suitable camp. But whether
they would settle north or south or west of Ticonderoga, he did not
know. They would pitch their tents this very night somewhere along the
shore of that watery serpent, Lake Champlain, but exactly where Red Deer
would lead them would depend largely on information gathered _en route_.
He wondered what Arnold would think of him. Those had been fine plans
that he and Arnold had made for hanging together and testing their new
signal system, and tracking and stalking in each other’s company. It was
Harry Arnold who had brought Gordon into the troop as a tenderfoot, and
it had been a great discovery for the elder boy. It had also opened up a
field for Master Gordon which belittled his fondest dreams. For even
before the organization came into existence he was, in all essential
particulars, a thorough, out-and-out Boy Scout. And indeed, it might
reasonably have seemed to him that the local troop had been organized in
order to afford a wider scope for the exploitation of his particular
accomplishments.
His laconic phrase of “That’s nothing,” when confronted with
difficulties, had come to be a familiar quotation among his intimates,
and he retained the expression after he blossomed forth with his staff
and badge and khaki attire. He could shoot a curve with a marble; he
could tell in which direction a bicycle had gone by its track; he was a
master worker in birch bark; he could make washers and other useful
articles of hardware by the aid of the railroad track; he could kindle
an open air fire in a pelting rain; he was the sole inventor of the
celebrated suction-pad for walking on narrow cliffs and ledges; and he
had memorized the Oakwood fire-signal system.
A whistle had been recently installed on the Town House, which uttered
an unearthly din whenever there was a fire in town. If it rang ten it
meant one locality; if it rang fifteen it meant another, and thus every
street and corner of the town was provided for. Whenever the whistle
blew, there was frantic hunting in every Oakwood home for the card which
showed the various locality calls. Of course, it is absolutely important
that a boy shall attend a fire, and Gordon at once realized that to
memorize the entire system would enable him always to be first on the
scene. Hence, if he happened to be walking along the street and heard
the screech of the whistle sounding 57, he knew at once in which
direction to go, and it was not uncommon for him to be waiting for the
firemen to point them out the house. Also in school when the lessons
were interrupted by the whistle’s ominous sound, the teacher, after
fumbling in her desk in a vain quest for the elusive card, would say,
“Perhaps Master Gordon can tell us;” and Master Gordon would promptly
answer, “Elm St. near Park Place.”
He knew the number of paving stones between his home and the corner; he
knew how to locate a baseball in a drain pipe; he could look at a kite
caught on a telegraph wire and tell you approximately where the flier of
the kite had stood when the mishap occurred; he knew just how far it was
to the Guild Room, to the church, to the public library. He loved such
little tidbits of information for their own sake, and like all
wide-awake boys, he had a habit of finding things.
You will see that here was the material for an A-1 scout, and when I add
that Master Gordon’s only vice (if you call it a vice) was an
unconquerable and excessive fondness for apples, you will know enough of
his character to last you for a chapter or two.
After the first excitement of missing the train had passed and he had
smiled the matter off, scout fashion, he opened his duffel bag and
sought consolation in a gigantic and mellow specimen of his favorite
fruit. Then he rose and retraced his steps up the hill. There on the
summit stood the fine, old-fashioned mansion of the Arnolds, and beyond
it a hundred yards or so the more modern residence of the Lord family,
standing well back upon its spacious, well-kept lawn.
There was not a soul stirring about the Arnold place, and as he passed
it he thought again of the boy whose particular companion he had meant
to be. He had a great admiration for Harry Arnold, and Harry, though he
jollied the younger boy and called him “Kid,” was quite under the spell
of his young friend and protégé.
Surely they would write to him and tell him where they were and how to
get to them; Arnold would attend to that. But perhaps Arnold did not
care so much, after all. He knew he furnished a good deal of amusement
to his friend, but whether Arnold really cared enough—no, very likely
he didn’t. They would all say it was his business to _be prepared_—to
be on hand; Arnold would be the first to say that.
So Master Gordon Lord walked slowly up the quiet, suburban street until
the roof of his own home was visible through the trees. He had finished
his apple, and he now sent the core spluttering against a tree. The
scout smile had gone under a cloud for the time being, for the boy now
began to realize the extent of his disappointment. There was not another
boy in sight. Ordinarily Arnold would have been mowing the lawn or
attending to some other outdoor work about the place at this time; but
there was no Arnold in sight now, and he seemed doubly absent because
Gordon knew where he had gone. Then his disappointment began to take the
form of anger, and even his anger was not well-directed, for it included
the very boy who had made him a scout and who had helped him into the
second class. But the thought that both patrols would soon be rushing
gayly up the Hudson while he trudged homeward in an almost boyless
Oakwood was too much for him, and he sat down on a rock along the
stretch of road between his own home and the Arnold house and blamed
them all and told himself that Arnold was a “lobstereen”—whatever may
be the meaning of that dreadful appellation.
Now there are many ways in which a man may afford a vent to his anger,
but the very best way for a boy to do so and by far the most
satisfactory is to choose a suitable target at an appropriate distance
and to sit down on a rock or log and proceed to pelt it with stones. For
with every cast of a missile goes a certain quantity of the unwholesome
spirit till it has all been dissipated in the free air. The first stone
is usually thrown in wrath, the next several in a kind of sullen
carelessness, and lo, the marksman presently finds himself captured by
the sporting instinct and aims, calmly and cheerfully, at his target
with no feeling but the sportsmanlike desire to hit the mark. This
method is strongly recommended to boys and its effects will be found to
be immediate and magic.
On the present occasion Gordon Lord passed quickly through the wrathful
and sullen stages and rose with characteristic determination and a sure
aim. You cannot aim true when you are angry, and at the present moment
Gordon cared more about hitting the mark than about anything else.
Presently the stone sped from his hand and went banging against the
slender tree.
“Good shot!” he heard a cheery voice call.
Gordon turned, and there, as sure as you live, stood Arnold.
There was no doubt about it. There was the blue flannel shirt with the
double row of pearl buttons. There was the thin book-strap for a belt,
and there was the full scout’s badge, not on his sleeve, but on the
front of his hat. There was the seamanship badge on his right arm. There
was the Beaver neckerchief tied in the celebrated Beaver knot. There was
the leather wristlet. It was Arnold, all right.
“H-hello, Harry,” gasped Gordon; “what—where did _you_ come from?”
“Where did _I_ come from? Why, from the station—on a fool hunt after
you. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Just throwing stones.”
“Do you know you’ve missed the train?”
“I knew that fifteen minutes ago.”
“Well, you’re a—”
“No, I’m not, Harry,—now just hold on a minute,—I started down—”
“Yes,” said Arnold, crossly, “and I waited till five minutes before
train time, then cut up through the fields to your house.”
“If you’d only come up by the park, you’d have seen me showing Miss
Leslie—honest, Harry, you ought to have been there. She was trying to
juggle eight books down to school and most of them were on the sidewalk.
So there was the chance for your Uncle Gordon. I happened to know a
trick—”
“I know,” interrupted Arnold, smiling in spite of himself, “you showed
her a way.”
“Right.”
“Did a good turn.”
“Right for Harry.”
“And missed the train.”
“Correct.”
Gordon took a careful aim and sent another stone to the mark.
“And you did a good turn, too, Harry; a bully one, coming to find me.
You’ve started the day fine.”
“Yes, we’ve made a grand starter,” said Arnold, as they sauntered toward
his home. “We’re a couple of A-1 scouts—not. The whole troop will be
laughing at us.”
“But remember the good turns, Harry.”
“I don’t see us doing any stalking together,” was the reply.
“Do you know how I fixed those books for her, Harry?”
“No, and I don’t want to know.”
They walked on in silence to the Arnold place, and Gordon followed his
somewhat disgruntled friend to the latter’s room. It was familiar ground
to him, for much of their planning and preparation had taken place in
it, and now he threw himself into the comfortable recess of a Morris
chair and tactfully awaited some sign of improvement in his companion’s
humor. Meanwhile, Harry made a tour around his well-filled apartment,
rearranging things and collecting the boyish litter, by way of affording
a vent to his mood. He took a canoe paddle from one corner and placed it
in another. He straightened his school diploma on the wall. His manner
was anything but cordial, and Gordon watched him with a twinkle in his
eye but did not venture a remark.
“There’s the blazing system,” grunted Harry, throwing a paper over to
the bed. “A lot of good it’ll do us now.”
He hammered a nail in the wall and hung a pair of moccasins on it. The
nail came out.
“Put it eighteen inches from the door casing, Harry.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Don’t know—just found it out.”
“Well,” said Harry, after a few minutes more of sullen silence, “what
are we going to do about it?”
“Do about it?”
“Yes, what are we going to do about it? Hang around in Oakwood for two
months?”
“They’ll write.”
“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Harry. “We’ll hear something in a few
days. The trouble is they may not know for a few days just where they’re
going to settle. You know, they’re going to get out at Ticonderoga and
strike up into the woods north. Red Deer spoke of following the old
Mohawk trail. I wish I had his map.”
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing out of the
window. Neither spoke.
“Harry,” said Gordon, at length, “it would be a great stunt for us to go
up there and find them.”
“You must be crazy, Kid.”
“Of course, they’ll write and tell us where they are, but that may be a
week or more, and when we got to them they’d all laugh at us. Now, if we
could just—”
“It’s out of the question, Kid.”
“No, it isn’t either,” persisted Gordon. “Here we are, a couple of
scouts—been tracking and stalking and signaling and woodcrafting and
all that sort of thing for six months. We know the troop is going to
camp along Lake Champlain on the New York side.”
“Lake Champlain’s a hundred and fourteen miles long,” interrupted Harry.
“That’s nothing. We know they’re somewhere along the west shore of that
lake—I say, let’s go and find them.”
“Why, you hair-brained kid, it would be like hunting for a needle in a
haystack,” said Harry, warming up a little to the idea under the younger
boy’s enthusiasm.
“Well, there’s a way to find a needle in a haystack, Harry. You fix a
big magnet on the end of a long stick and then begin—”
But that was as far as he got. Harry Arnold sat down on the edge of the
bed and laughed himself hoarse. He came out of this fit in much the same
condition as one comes out from the crisis of a fever. His ill humor was
quite gone and his mood was more agreeable and receptive than it had
been since he left the station in quest of his delinquent friend.
“It _would_ be a great thing,” said he, “only—”
“There’s no _only_ about it, Harry. It can be done and we can do it.
We’ll start before there’s a chance to hear. No sirree! They’ll not have
the laugh on me. We’ll drop in on them some fine day as if we’d dropped
from the clouds.”
The attractive features of the scheme began rapidly to appeal to the
older boy. It was all very well tracking and stalking in the Oakwood
woods, where any member of the troop could take his bearings by the
church steeple. It was all very well pretending to be lost. It was a
good enough makeshift to think up emergencies, to make them to order,
and then gallantly to surmount them by a knowledge of woodcraft. But
here was a real test for their ability, their endurance, their sagacity,
their observation, resource, and experience. A Saturday afternoon
grapple with the little patch of Oakwood woods was like a bout with a
punching bag—the exercise was good, but the element of uncertainty and
real peril was absent. For a punching bag cannot hit back. And after all
they had only been playing a game in which Nature—the opponent—had
been frightfully handicapped. She had held no surprises for them and
presented no obstacles. The difficulties they had overcome had been
manufactured for that especial purpose. They had pretended to be
lost—but they could hear the Town House bell every half-hour. No, the
whole thing seemed tame beside the enchanting picture of a real
encounter with Nature up among the rugged foothills of the Adirondacks.
There, along the winding course of Lake Champlain, somewhere within hail
of its shore and nestling among the hills that flank it—somewhere in
that wilderness would be encamped the two patrols of the Oakwood scouts.
And shielding them and baffling the searchers would be the swamps, the
mountains, the valleys, and the strange, dim woods. Here would be a
foeman worthy of their steel, and beside it the modest, familiar little
patch of woodland that skirted their suburban home seemed pitiably
small. So that Gordon very truthfully remarked:
“Honest, Harry, I feel as if I’d been hitting a fellow under my size.”
Was there a way? What weapons had they with which to encounter this
great silent, enveloping foe, and make it yield up its secret? The
wilderness, the hills and streams, the swamps and thickets, must pay the
cost of the encounter and sustain them in their quest. They would lay
the enemy under contribution for their maintenance.
They talked it over, warming to the idea as new obstacles presented
themselves. They likened themselves to Stanley hunting for Livingstone
in South Africa. And they told each other what Red Deer would think when
he saw them come walking in—which, of course, they would do in a very
nonchalant and offhand manner, as if they had just happened in for a
little social call.
“It’ll be great,” said Gordon.
“After all,” said Arnold, more thoughtfully, “we can’t get lost if we
have a compass. A fire with damp leaves on it is as good as a telephone,
and—”
“Of course it is,” said Gordon.
“You can’t freeze if you’ve got a match.”
“You don’t need a match, Harry—there’s a way—”
“Yes, there’s always a way when you’re along, Kid.”
So they talked over the pros and cons of the proposed undertaking,
taking account of all they had learned of woodcraft, and gloating over
the surprise they would give Red Deer and the two patrols, until
finally, from mere excess of enthusiasm, they sat silent, contemplating
the variety of opportunities which the expedition would present for the
testing of their resource and woodcraft skill.
“Kid,” said Harry Arnold, “the troop can be found wherever they are. We
can reduce the area a good deal by deduction at the very start. We know
they’ll be on the New York shore not far from the lake. It’ll be the
greatest thing in the world for us to go up there and find them, and by
the powers, I’m going to do it if I—”
“Oh, Harry, let’s start to-night!” said Gordon.