THE SIGN OF THE TURTLE
Gordon now found the path easier to follow, partly because it was better
defined and less obstructed by brush, and partly because the moon was
coming to his assistance. Its light flickered through the tree tops some
way before him over the summit of a hill which lay directly in his path.
Presently, the woods were all aglow with its checkered brightness.
Keeping his eye ever to the right of the path for possible signs or
directions, he hurried on, running when the way permitted, through a
marshy hollow, and was just about to begin the climb of the hill before
him when his observant eye became riveted on a certain flat stone with
an oval wet spot in the center. If he had not been a scout he would not
have noticed this at all, and even the average scout would probably have
mistaken it for a footprint. But to Gordon, even in his haste, the
little wet trail which led from the oval spot to the edge of the stone
told another story. He knew a turtle had been basking here within a very
short time and had gone away. Why? Gordon asked himself as he hurried
on. For he knew from his trusty old friend, “Doc. Wood,” as he called
the famous writer of natural history, that when a turtle seeks a high
and dry position in the evening he does not contemplate moving out at
short notice. So Gordon put the footprint and the fact of the turtle’s
sudden departure together and became very curious. If some one had
preceded him along this path, why were there not more footprints? And
why had the some one deliberately left the injured boy to his fate? Then
suddenly another thought came to him which made him shudder, but he had
no time to think, and hurried on.
The woods became more sparse now, and presently a road crossed the boy’s
path. Beyond it the hill continued to rise gently, with only a few
scattered trees here and there. The moon was now well clear of the
summit, and smiling down encouragingly upon the sturdy, indomitable
little fellow as he paused, gave his stocking a vigorous hitch, and
started to run up to the summit. If a view from that favorable position
revealed nothing, then he would have to consider whether it would be
wiser to attempt to pick up the trail down the opposite slope and thus
find the proper entrance into the woods beyond, or give up and go back
to the stricken boy. For he knew he must not let his quest for succor
run too far, and that a scout must always think and use his judgment.
Excitedly, nervously, he mounted the bare summit of the hill, finding
never a footprint to encourage him, nor a familiar scout sign. For a
second he stood there, seeming very small in that limitless expanse,
gazing about in the moonlight. He looked down the hill, concentrated his
gaze, and tried to pick out some sign of trail. But the hubbly,
coarse-grown hillside kept its secret, if it had any, and Gordon knelt
down in quest of some hint, some clue, near at hand. He rose,
bewildered, uncertain, almost discouraged. His uniform was covered with
burrs and torn by the brambly thickets he had crawled through.
But the first round of his encounter with this rugged enemy was over, as
he was presently to know. And Master Gordon Lord, scout of the second
class, Beaver Patrol, 1st Oakwood Troop, was the victor. For out of the
woods which began under the further slope of the hill and extended far
into the distance, there rose about a quarter of a mile away, little,
fitful, fast-dissolving gusts of smoke.
A few moments later he stood at the foot of the hill looking anxiously
through the thick forest where only flickering glints of the moonlight
penetrated. But no moonlight was needed now, for he could distinguish
several squares of white, half hidden among the trees, and rendered
visible by the cheerful blaze of a camp-fire.
“I’m certainly a dandy!” said Gordon, with unconcealed pride, as he
started through the woods, running with all his might and main.
No one heard the remark unless it was the man in the moon, who looked
down with a broad smile on his face and seemed to wink his eye as if to
say, “You certainly are, my boy.”