That evening Gordon was doomed to disappointment. From the moment that he learned they might go, his active mind had been busy considering what articles they must take, and most of those he thought necessary were ruthlessly vetoed by his friend. He found that the first delight of the novice in camping and exploring was heartlessly taken from him—the delight of making preparations. There was, in fact, scarce any preparation at all. They spent the evening in Harry’s room, which had much the appearance of a frontier trading-post, so crowded was it with camping paraphernalia and forest mementos.

From these Harry collected a few things, some from the walls, some from bureau drawers, some from a large chest. There was fishing tackle, a practical jewel-set compass, a jack-knife which he carefully selected from several others, a small belt ax, a flat metal trap, several snares, a pair of mooseskin moccasins, a water-tight match box, the necessary toilet articles, a small file, a small aluminum frying pan, a saucepan, a tin cup, a small aluminum coffee pot into which he put two knives, two forks, and two spoons, for Harry’s duffel bag, containing his personal equipment for the trip, had gone on with the troop.

“Now, let me see,” he said, standing beside the bed and contemplating the things he had chosen, “you take this paper and write down what I name—or wait a minute, while I think of it.” He disappeared, and presently returned with a spool of strong thread and two needles stuck into it. This he dropped into the tin cup, then dropped the tin cup into the coffee pot.

“Now write down what I tell you—these are all things we’ve got to get in the morning.

“Two tin plates.

“Bacon.

“Rice—do you like rice? Saccharine tablets. Raisins. Salt and pepper. Egg powder. Got all that down?”

“Yes.”

“All right, the rest will come to me in my sleep. Now let’s see what you’ve got in that fancy bag.” He turned the contents of Gordon’s duffel bag out on the bed. “What in the world is this?”

“That’s a suction pad, Harry.”

“What’s it for?”

“Keep you from falling off cliffs.”

“We’ll cut out the suction pad. Here, eat these apples and get them out of the way. Now, what’s this?”

So he went through the pile of things, approving some, discarding others, yielding here, insistent there, until, as he said, he had reduced Gordon’s freight to a common denominator.

The next morning they started, with a minimum amount of duffel for one week’s supply, the load divided between them. There were crackers of the iron-clad pilot variety; there was rice, which Harry said he could do lots of things with; there were chocolate, cheese, figs, cereal, besides the things Harry had enumerated the night before. Besides these, there was “fly dope,” one or two household medicines, an antiseptic solution, blankets, two empty cushion bags, and a good-sized piece of balloon silk (weighing next to nothing) for shelter.

Harry wore long khaki trousers laced down from the knee, and moccasins of heavy mooseskin. From the belt up, however, he was rather a sailor than a scout, for he had never been able to bring himself to abandon the blue flannel shirt with its flap front and double row of pearl buttons. He positively declined to wear any kind of coat. His belt was a thin book-strap, and from this hung a small belt ax. Of course, he carried his rifle.

Gordon was a scout from head to foot. He would not have missed one detail of the full regalia. He carried his part of the burden in his duffel bag slung over his staff, on which he also ostentatiously hung the trap and snares and to which was bound the fishing rod and tackle.

“You want to do what I did, Harry,” said he on their way to the station. “Rip the lining out of your hat and pull it on good and tight—the felt catches your hair and it can’t blow off.”

“Or pull off either when you’re crawling through brush. It’s a good idea.”

“That’s nothing,” said Gordon. “Look here.” He held his scout hat forward, displaying inside the crown a little flap pocket filled with matches. “See, you can splash through all the water you want, but they’ll never get wet there, and you’ve got them right handy where you want them to light in a breeze.”

“Good for you,” said Harry.

“That’s nothing,” said Gordon.

But just then the train whistled and both boys sprinted down the hill.

The ride to the city was not long, one or two trifling purchases at a sporting goods store where Harry seemed to be well known took but a few minutes, and before ten o’clock they were seated comfortably in the Montreal Express, gliding up the east shore of the Hudson, just as the Oakwood troop, minus these two boys, had gone the day before.

It was Gordon’s custom always to get his good turn done early in the day. He was not going to be caught at sundown with this duty staring him in the face. Not that he confined himself to one good turn per day, for, indeed, he acted on the approved theory that one good turn deserves another. But the first good turn was a religious duty; it was essential to his good standing, and when he undertook to become a scout he understood this to be a regular daily obligation. He did not ask for any credit or indulgence. He never let his good turn go over to be made up the following day by two good turns. He rose in the morning, washed, dressed, breakfasted, did his school work, then looked about for an opportunity to do his good turn.

So now he looked up and down the railroad carriage to see if any one were in need of his kindly ministrations. After a minute, he rose and walked up the aisle, where he stood on the outskirts of a little group consisting of the train newsboy, the brakeman, an elderly lady, and two little girls, evidently her grandchildren. The brakeman was trying to open the window for the elderly lady. But the window would not open. The brakeman, giving up the attempt, went up the aisle and out of the car, and an elderly gentleman offered his services with the same result. The lady was beginning to feel the embarrassment of being such a center of interest. As Harry craned his head around he saw Gordon standing modestly apart from the others, hat in hand.

Presently, the latter came back to his seat and got his staff.

“Did you think of a way?” asked Harry, laughing.

“Can’t tell yet,” said Gordon, as he went back up the aisle.

The car door opened and a sonorous voice called, “Poughkeepsie!”

Gordon stepped in between the seats, placing the end of his staff under the brass lift at the bottom of the sash. As the train slackened speed, he pressed gently on his lever. Suddenly the movement of the train became more abrupt, the cars shunted, there came the slight convulsive movement he had been waiting for, the staff was pressed quickly down just at the right second, the window creaked and rose.

In a moment more he was seated by his friend, volubly explaining the trick.

“If she doesn’t come when the train stops, try again when it starts and often that’ll fetch her. Only you’ve got to be careful to press just exactly at the right second—the physical moment, I think they call it.”

“That’s it,” said Arnold, and turned his face toward the window, laughing.

After they had left Albany there occurred another incident which, though trifling at the time, was destined to be long remembered. They were sitting comfortably back in their seats discussing their plan of campaign, when a boy of about sixteen came through the car. He was dressed in ordinary summer outing fashion save that he wore a scout hat, and as he passed the two boys he raised his right hand to his forehead and made the full salute to Harry. He was one of a long line of people carrying bundles, suitcases, and so forth, who were passing through the aisle, and it would have caused a slight interruption to the others had he paused. Probably for this reason he went straight on through the car and disappeared through the doorway.

“He’s a scout, all right,” said Gordon.

“Yes,” answered Harry, “but this is what puzzles me—how did he know I am entitled to the full salute?”

“From the badge on your hat, of course!”

“Only my hat’s upside down on my knees. Guess again.”

“Well,” said Gordon, “he knew you were a first-class man by your seamanship badge.”

“But how did he know I was patrol leader?”

“Your flag?”

“No—that’s gone on with the troop.”

The only conclusion they could reach was that the strange boy was a wonder. Every now and then they reverted to it, and one or the other would suggest going back through the train to hunt him up and ask him how he knew that Harry Arnold was patrol leader. But they invariably settled back satisfied with the observation that the boy was a “winner” until finally Gordon shouted:

“He saw the badge wasn’t on your sleeve, Harry, so he knew it must be on your hat—there you are!”

“No,” said Harry, “he wouldn’t expect to see it on this flannel shirt—he’d know it belonged on the khaki jacket.”

“Well, he’s a Sherlock Holmes, all right,” concluded Gordon, and there the matter rested for the time being.

At four o’clock in the afternoon the train pulled into the old village of Ticonderoga, which is at the head of Lake George and on the crescent-shaped stream which connects it with Lake Champlain. The boys realized now that it would have been better for them to arrive in the morning, but that would have involved an all-night journey in the train.

There was the inevitable cluster of summer boarders waiting at the station, and the two boys created quite a little ruffle of interest and curiosity as they stepped off the train. They made their way through the group and up to the post-office, where Harry said he wanted to “buzz” the postmaster for any knowledge he might have of the whereabouts of the Oakwood troop. Gordon stood by in fear and trembling lest the official might drop some hint which would simplify their quest and spoil the whole fun of their expedition.

It had gotten around to the postmaster by a somewhat circuitous route that a party of boys and one man had arrived in town the day before and were not known to be staying at any of the houses, so they must have gone somewhere. They couldn’t have stayed in town very long. “If they had, we’d a knowed it,” said the postmaster.

They inquired in the telegraph station as to whether a party of boys had sent a message to Oakwood, N. J., the day before. None had. But the telegraph operator’s sister had called in the doctor that morning, who had told her that the livery stable man had gone into the hardware store to buy a bit and had heard the hardware man say two “rigged-up fellers” had bought a steel trap the night before. So, despite Gordon’s protest, Harry interviewed the hardware man. The incident of the trap was true, but that was all they could learn, and they sought no further information.

It lacked still an hour or two of sunset when they left the village and found themselves on the open road which stretched northward. It traversed a tract of fairly level country about two miles to the west of the lake, and about the same distance to the west of the road rose the mountains. Now and then they could catch a glimpse of the water whose winding course they were following, and always to their left were the hills, rolling one over another far to the westward and fading in color as they receded, till they merged into the horizon. Here and there, amid that multitudinous confusion, there arose some lofty peak touched with the first crimson rays of sunset. Doubtless, there were pleasant villages nestling here and there, and cheerful homes, but these the boys could not see—only the innumerable hills, silent, wild, lonesome. It seemed that they might reach to the farthest ends of the earth. To Gordon the country did not look at all like the map, and it was hard to believe that the print and paper really represented anything or could be used to any purpose.

“Well, here we are in the haystack,” said Harry, cheerily. “Now for the needle—I don’t see it anywhere, do you?”

“Harry,” Gordon answered, “I think we’ve got a job on our hands. Look at those hills. They don’t look much as they do on the map—all crisscrossed up with roads and villages and things.”

“Especially, things,” said Harry. “You see, Kid, we’re between the foothills and the lake. That ridge bends toward the lake and touches the shore about five miles ahead—savvy? We’re cutting right up through the middle of a great big wedge, as you might say, and Dibble Mountain is the point. We’re headed right for it.”

“The point isn’t sharp enough to cut you,” commented Gordon.

“And when we get to Dibble Mountain, we’ll run upstairs and see what we can see.”

The sun was rapidly sinking, and as they followed the unfrequented road, the gathering shadows, the increasing chilliness of the air, the absence of any of the cheerful and familiar signs of human life, were not without their quieting effect on Gordon’s buoyant spirit. He had heard Dr. Brent say that this country was not the Adirondacks proper, that it was not, in fact, a very wild country. But now, as he looked about him at the far-reaching hills with their dense patches of woods, growing somber and more forbidding in the twilight, it seemed to him that no country could possibly be wilder and more impenetrable. Hills, hills, nothing but hills; some rearing their rugged summits high above the rest as if they cherished a kind of lofty scorn at being put on a map and traced with a lead pencil. For the moment, his faith in human resource and the facilities and possibilities of woods-wisdom was shaken in the face of this great, enveloping, silent adversary. He even doubted whether Black Wolf^[1] himself (let alone Red Deer) could put up much of a fight against such odds.

Presently the road entered a patch of woodland where frogs croaked despondently in a little marshy pond and crickets kept up their incessant night songs. Then their way brought them into open country again. Silently they tramped on. On their right the road skirted a ravine which descended abruptly and whose bottom was lost in a black, tangled thicket. And beyond, in the direction of the great lake, extended woods till the twilight and the distance merged the tree-tops into one vast dark coverlet. They paused a moment, peering over the broken log fence into the depths. Somewhere in the stillness was the sound of falling water. High above them in the dusk sped a great bird, hastening toward the mountains.

“It’s a pretty big haystack, hey, Kid?” said Harry, cheerily.

“It certainly is,” answered Gordon.

A little farther on they came to a road branching off from the one they were traveling, and Harry found on examining his map that it made a loop of a couple of miles and reëntered the straighter road.

“There must be houses along that road,” said Gordon.

“Why?”

“Else what would be the good of the road at all?”

“Well, then,” said Harry, “what’s the use of this one, if you come to that? There are no houses on it so far.”

“Well, if they both lead to the same place, if the other one just forms a loop, it must be to take in some houses, don’t you see?”

“Maybe,” answered Harry.

“And I believe it would be a good thing for me to go along there and see what I can learn. We’ll meet at the other junction. The troop must have gone along one or the other of these roads, unless they went in another direction altogether. And if there are any houses along there, as there must be, why, somebody must have seen them pass.”

“You seem to be more anxious for tips than you were,” said Harry.

“No, only I think they may have started down that road and cut up into the hills before it joins this one again. What’s the use in just marching right past them?”

The idea struck Harry as a good one; so it was agreed that he should keep to the straight road while Gordon covered the loop. They had not traveled to this point, where they were now to part for an hour or so, without keeping a keen watch for any signs of the troop which the roadside might reveal. But an afternoon shower had obliterated any tracks, if such there were, and the road had yielded no hint of those who had gone before. But Harry, still hopeful despite the gathering dusk, now took his way alone, making careful scrutiny of the right-hand border of the road for any intentional signs that might have been left, although he had no reason to anticipate finding any.

The two boys were to meet where the roads again came together, which was at the foot of Dibble Mountain about two miles ahead, their plan being to camp somewhere under the shadow of the mountain and to climb to the summit in the morning for a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding country.

The light was fast fading as Gordon left his companion and started along the loop road. It was instinctive with him to keep his eyes wide open, and his training as a scout, under Harry’s special tutelage, had developed this trait until it was said of him by his friends, and especially by Red Deer, that his habit of finding things, of picking up pennies, collar buttons, and so forth, was little less than uncanny. His pockets were a veritable junk shop of miscellaneous trifles, the trophies and mementos of his pedestrian tours.

Now, he had not gone a hundred yards along this road when something caught his attention and he paused to examine it closely. It was nothing more than an arrow, possibly three inches long, chalked upon a rock at the roadside. As nearly as he could judge in the dusk, the color of the chalk was pink, but the arrow pointed neither up nor down the road, but across it toward the west. So he crossed the road, examining the bordering trees and land, but could find nothing. He sat down on a rock and thought. To the average boy a mark of this kind would have meant nothing. To a scout it might mean many things. But, unlike most of the scout signs, its meaning was not manifest. It was not the good road sign nor the bad road sign, nor was it the sign that a message was secreted near. Yet it pointed a direction; but the direction showed no path nor trail and was fast wrapping itself in darkness.

He rubbed his fingers over the arrow, making a powdery blur upon the rock and causing his fingers to feel smooth and powdery as he rubbed them together.

“This hasn’t been here long,” said he. Then he pondered, for he knew the rule that Dr. Brent was so fond of repeating. Use your brains first, then your hands and feet.

Gordon knew all the signs, Indian and otherwise, that scouts might employ, but he had never seen a scout mark made with chalk before, and it jarred upon his romantic sense to see this schoolroom material used for purposes of woodcraft. Yet there was the arrow, pointing directly across the road, apparently at nothing. He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps it was only a tramp’s mark. Perhaps—perhaps—then, suddenly, a thought came jumping into his head which gave him a thrill of joy. Three nights ago, in the club room, Dr. Brent had sketched Lake Champlain on the blackboard in pink chalk. That settled it. “I’ve found them,” he shouted, which was very much like him, for he was apt in his enthusiasms to anticipate his triumphs.

Leaping across the road, he got down on his hands and knees, lighting match after match, and searched the ground. Presently he noticed a log spanning the little marshy gully at the side of the road. This he had not seen before, for it was well hidden amid the weedy roadside growths. Now he saw that several reeds which had inclined across the path of this rough bridge had been broken, and hung limply over to one side. The log ran into a floor of pine needles, where no sign of footprint showed. But there were the arrow and the ford and the broken reeds, and these meant that somebody had crossed—crossed and flown up in the air, for all that he could discover. Nervous with expectation, he hurried about the grove, felt of the trees, knelt and examined rocks, and avoided kicking the smallest stone until he had observed its position in regard to other stones. Stealthily, silently, alertly, he moved about. His scout instinct was aroused. But he found nothing, and the long summer twilight was now almost at an end. Peeling some bark from a tree and pulling off a quantity of the sticky resiny substance from others, he hastily kindled a small fire. In a few moments this blazed up, showing him an illuminated area with a ground as smooth as a ballroom. There was not a sign of track or trail. He paused a moment, thinking. Then he pulled up his stocking, which was an indication that he meant business—a sort of challenge.

Thus, with all his spirit of adventure and scouting instinct, he stood, baffled but thoughtful, in the vast, strange country, with his eyes fixed on his little fire. For a moment he forgot Harry, forgot everything but the pink arrow, the log ford, and the broken reeds, and stood there, his brown eyes fixed on the dancing flame, his staff stuck in the ground beside him and his duffel bag thrown over it. Presently, he went back to the log, knelt down, and examined the end of it which rested on the bed of pine needles. On the near side of the log was a very slight oval depression in the ground in which the pine needles were rotted, and where a little red lizard lay contentedly in the dampness. On the side of the log nearest this depression several slugs crawled distractedly about. Gordon reached his arm across the log and rolled it back into the depression where it belonged. Then he sat down upon it and thought.

“Some one must have lost his balance in the middle of the log,” said he, aloud, “and in falling pushed it out of place.” And that could not have been long ago, for the slugs were still moving confusedly here and there and had not yet found the under side of the log. Gordon examined the muddy incline which led from the gully up into the grove. The dank, reedy foliage did not seem to have been disturbed, but in the brighter glow of his growing fire he presently noticed a well-defined, muddy imprint upon a flat rock. If he had discovered a diamond he could not have been more elated.

Now he thought to himself that the person who had met with this trifling accident was either not a scout at all or a scout in a great hurry. For such a thing as a scout calmly falling off a log was preposterous, and Gordon would not entertain the thought except on the theory of great haste. But how had both patrols, sixteen boys, gotten through this grove leaving never a sign? For the pink chalk identified the travelers as the Oakwood troop.

He gathered up a few pieces of bark and some leaves, and putting out his fire made his way hastily up through the grove. Presently he stood at its edge and looked across a spacious stretch of meadow land, beyond which were the grim, dark hills. He kindled another fire on a huge, convex piece of bark and, kneeling, crept along the edge of the grove, endeavoring to discover where the trail came out. But he could find no sign. It was now time to pull up his stocking again and take a long “think,” as he called it.

The result of his “think” was that he walked out into the field about one hundred and fifty feet, placed his little portable fire on the ground and enlarged it with a fresh supply of fuel from the grove. He watched it till its volume satisfied him, then returning to the edge of the grove he “shinnied” up a tree, but was careful not to embarrass his vision by looking directly at the fire. He looked about halfway between it and the grove and there, thrown into bold relief by the neighboring fire and his own high position, there ran a little straight trail across the meadow which died away short of the further side. He slid down from the tree, planted his staff in the ground near his fire, and shook a few burning twigs a yard or two from it. Then he carried his fire as best he could, for its bark tray was now ignited, still farther across the field, as far as the point where he thought the trail had become invisible to him from the tree. Returning to the edge of the grove, he climbed up the tree again. Sure enough, there was the trail visible farther on in the glow of the second fire, and entering the thick woods beyond the meadow. It was barely discernible at that point, yet Gordon, from his high position and by concentrating his gaze, could determine the faint, shadowy line, flickering between visibility and invisibility, as it wound into the silent forest. When he took his eyes from it for a moment, he lost it, and picked it out again with difficulty.

The idea of following it was out of the question; so, looking steadily, he picked out a certain tree near which the trail entered, studying as best he could its height, size, and conformation. Climbing down from the tree and keeping this beacon constantly in view, he ran across the field, stamped out the few remaining embers of his first fire, took his staff, and made a bee-line for his beacon. When he reached it he could not, for the life of him, discover the faintest indication of the trail across the field, but there, opening before him, was a well-defined, beaten path up through the forest. He saw it in the glow from his second fire, a few yards back, which was now dying fast. Leaning against the big tree which had guided him across the meadow, he looked back over the trailless space which he had forced to give up its secret. He looked at the tall, black trees of the grove beyond, whose smooth floor of pine needles had tried to baffle and confound him. Then he threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and feeling his way cautiously with his staff, started up into the thick forest.

His whole thought now was to reach the camp and surprise the two patrols and Red Deer. Feeling his way cautiously on and upward, for it was a wooded hillside he was traversing, he managed to pick his way along the winding forest path. Now he stumbled over naked roots, now some overhanging or projecting bough impeded his progress. It was useless to look for signs in such darkness; it was with difficulty that he kept to the wild, thickly grown trail. Sometimes he paused, undecided as to its direction, but always went on again, reassured by some trifling clue. Now and then, a clear, unobstructed opening of a few yards convinced him that he was in the path. At other times his only resource was to feel about with hands and feet, determining as best he might the path of least resistance and pressing through its tangled brush to find always an opening farther on. It was difficult work. No one who had gone before, no roadside code, could help him here.

Once or twice he thought of going back and resuming his quest with Harry in the morning, but he had gone so far that it seemed his easiest course, however difficult and involved, to press forward. Moreover, he was fast falling into the odd conceit of viewing the surrounding country, which he had nonchalantly called a haystack, in the light of a great adversary which had thrown down a challenge to him, and he must perforce take up the challenge, else be a coward and a “quitter.” So far he had held his own, and what a glory it would be to march into camp having vanquished these silent, baffling hosts of wood and hill and darkness. “Hello, Charlie,” he would say to the Beavers’ corporal, “hurry up there and get me a bite to eat, will you?” His whole ambition was now to walk carelessly into their midst and squat down by the camp-fire with some cordial, offhand remark.

From this train of thought, he was presently aroused by a sudden vigorous strategic move on the part of his imagined foe. His staff, which he had been bringing to the ground before him like a walking-stick with each step, suddenly sank, touching nothing. He had the presence of mind to drop it and throw both arms quickly behind him, which inclined his body slightly backward and enabled him to retreat a step or two.

Shaking from head to foot, he fumbled in the little flap pocket in his hat crown and lit a match. It flared a second, then went out. But in the sudden glare he saw that he was standing on the brink of a yawning chasm. Still trembling from his narrow escape, he struck another light and saw that one of his footprints was within eighteen inches of the precipice and that the other had actually rested on the very edge, displacing some of the earth, which had crumbled and fallen in. Gordon had had his first lesson in the tactics which the wilderness can use.

He lay flat with his head over the edge and looked down. Nothing but darkness. So again he must use his faithful ally, the fire. Kindling a fire was his great stunt. He would gather up a few dry, brittle twigs or cones, scrape out a little punk, arrange them daintily, make a dome over them with his hands, and presently show you a very ambitious little blaze, as a magician will take a mysterious rabbit from a hat. “Do the fire trick, Kid,” the boys of the troop would say to him. So now he foraged about, accumulated the necessary materials, and presently had a very respectable flame. But the glare about seemed only to make the depths of the precipice darker. It had shown him, however, that the soil displaced by his perilous step was not the only soil that had been disturbed. Scarce two feet farther along the edge of the bank quite a sizable piece of earth had caved in. But he could see nothing below. He cut a straight stick about the size of an ordinary cane. This he whittled with his jack-knife, cutting in from the end of the stick to a depth of about eight inches, until the curly shavings formed a sort of brush. Between these wooden bristles he wedged as much tree gum as he could find on the adjacent trees, and lighting his torch, went cautiously along the edge of the bank.

This soon began to slope gradually until at a distance of about fifty feet he was able to let himself down into the bed of the chasm. It was filled with rocks and fallen trees and dank undergrowth, and yielded the unwholesome odor of rotting wood.

Gordon picked his way through the gully, holding his flaring torch here and there until he was nearly under the spot where he had all but fallen. Here were three logs, two of them lying flat upon the swampy ground, the other leaning against the side of the precipice. He walked along one of these to avoid the wet as much as possible and suddenly came upon a hat, of the same general pattern as his own, lying in the mud. He was just about to pick it up when he saw a few feet farther on a ghastly object. A boy, his face smeared with blood and his leg in a very unnatural position, lay stark before him.

The sight, as it showed in the glare of Gordon’s torch, quite unnerved him, and he stood for a moment on the other log staring at the figure lying prone and motionless in the mud. He could not bring himself to go nearer. Presently, more to relieve his own nervous tension than for any other purpose, he called. But the figure neither stirred nor answered. There was something about its position that frightened Gordon, and he could not bring himself to go close enough to look at the boy’s eyes. Then suddenly the words of General Sir Baden-Powell, which he had read, came jumping into his head,—plain words, plainly stated, and for that reason stamped in the boy’s memory:

At this recollection the young scout conquered his hesitation, stamped over through the mud to where the boy lay, and did the sensible thing, as a scout should. He circled his hand lightly about the poor, limp wrist and pressed slightly with his two middle fingers. As usual, with a novice, he had the wrong spot, so he moved his fingers ever so little and, sure enough, after a moment’s concentration, he became aware of the little, steady throbbing which told him that at least the boy was alive.

He thrust his now waning torch into the mud and thought. He knew that if either of the boy’s limbs were broken he should not be moved unless absolutely necessary and then only with such handling as he was not in a position to give. He knew that if anything were the matter with the boy’s spine, any save the most careful and skillful moving might prove instantly fatal. But he also knew that no injured person should be left lying there in the mud.

Undoubtedly, the responsibility which had suddenly been thrust upon him, the need of careful judgment, were out of proportion to Gordon’s experience and years, and being of a light-headed, sanguine, and buoyant temperament, the “First Aid” training and ambulance badge had not been especially a part of his ambition. His scoutish triumphs, until now, had all been more or less amusing and humorous, but here was a grave duty resting on his young shoulders. And he met it, as a scout usually does, willingly.

First he crowded all the odds and ends of wood and rock that he could find under the edge of the precipice, where the ground was higher and drier. Then, tugging with all his might and main, he managed to get the three logs over to this pile and rested their ends against it, so that they lay parallel with each other at a slight incline. Then he pressed down into the ground four sticks, one at the head and one at the foot of each outer log, thus effectually preventing their spreading. The lower end, or foot, of this inclined rack rested in the mud just above the prostrate boy’s head. Across this lower end and under the logs, he laid a stout stick whose ends rested just beside the stakes he had driven in the ground. Now he hurried along the gully and up the bank to the spot where he had left his bag. This he took and also such green boughs as he could procure hastily in the dark, and collected some more gum. When he returned it was necessary for him to re-whittle his torch and re-fill it with this substance.

Arranging the boughs upon the rack and making as smooth a bed as he could in his great hurry, he spread his blanket over all. Then he kindled a fire up under the precipice where the ground was dry. All of his fuel had to be brought from above, and he carted down several loads in his bag, having emptied it of its contents. After he had succeeded, by much skillful persuasion, in inducing the little blaze to brace up and try to amount to something in the world, he drove two sticks into the ground, one on either side of the fire, and from one to the other of these he strung a piece of snare wire. On the other side of the gully, water was trickling down a rock, but how to entice it into his pail was a question. He noticed on the ground, near the unconscious boy, a little pamphlet. Without any very clear idea of its possible utility he picked it up. On the cover were printed the words:

He knew the pamphlet well. Tearing the cover page off, he took his pail and going over to the miniature waterfall he held the page, slanting ways, tight against the rock with the other edge leading into his pail. In a few moments the pail was half filled with fairly clean water. This he hung from the snare wire above the flame.

By the exercise of all his strength and with the greatest care, he succeeded in pulling the prostrate form up the inclined rack, cutting and pulling off the boy’s outer clothing as fast as it reached the foot of the rack so that the blanket might be kept dry. It was a delicate and difficult task, but he did it. When the limp, unconscious figure was on the rack, Gordon lifted one side of the foot by means of the cross bar underneath, laying the edge of this cross bar on a rock which he had placed for the purpose. He did the same with the other side. Thus he had succeeded in placing his charge on a couch well above the mud, dry and comparatively comfortable. He took off his own khaki coat and laid it over the boy. When his water had heated, he washed the boy’s face carefully with his handkerchief.

As the mud and blood disappeared, a white face with closed eyes was revealed. Gordon started, then stared intently. It was the very boy who had passed through the aisle in the railroad train and given Harry Arnold the full salute. There was an ugly wound on one side of his forehead. This, however, had ceased to bleed, and Gordon bathed it carefully and bandaged it with his handkerchief.

Here his resource failed him. He knew of nothing more that he could do for the poor fellow’s comfort. It was quite too dark for smoke signals, and the woods were too dense for an effectual message by fire. It occurred to him to open the little scout bulletin, thinking that possibly something might be written in it, some name, or troop or patrol name, which might suggest some course better than merely waiting. He held it close to the fire and ran it over. It was Bulletin No. 5, containing among other things the required tests for tenderfoot, first-class, and second-class scouts. These were listed numerically, and as Gordon was very familiar with all of them they did not interest him particularly. Having done all the second-class tests, he did not even glance at these, but he did bestow a fond and covetous eye upon the first-class list. The first test, beginning, “Swim fifty yards,” was checked off. The second, requiring the sum of fifty cents in the savings bank, was also checked.

“He’s to the good on the financial side,” commented Gordon. The third requirement (the signal test) was also checked. Not so the fourth.

“Go on foot, alone, to a point seven miles away and return,” said Gordon, thoughtfully. “Ticonderoga must be about five miles from here. But the fellow came up on the train. If he’s trying to make his test—. Well, anyway, if he came from the village and was headed for a point seven miles from the village, his camp must be only a mile or two farther on.”

Inspired by the thought, he added more fuel to his fire and printed across the back of the pamphlet, with a charred stick, the words, Gone for help.

He stuck the pamphlet on a twig and placed it so that the boy, if he opened his eyes, must see it in the light of the fire. Then, hurrying along the gully, carrying nothing but his staff, he sought for a place low enough or sloping enough for him to mount the farther side of the hollow. Finally, clambering up through tangled brush, he reached the brow and went cautiously along the edge to a point almost above where his fire still burned and where the prostrate figure lay, stark and white and motionless. He lighted a match to make sure that the path recommenced here, and in its short glare he noticed something which made him start.

It was a new, clearly defined footprint, pointing in the same direction that he himself was about to take.

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.”