Toby was examining the ground around the ashes with those snapping eyes of his, small in point of size, but capable of taking in every point going.
"How d'ye suppose he did do it?" persisted Step Hen, who was very determined, once he had set his mind on anything—stubbornness some of his camp-mates called it.
"Oh! there are ways easier to grasp in your mind than explain," Allan remarked. "You just seem to know a thing. Some hidden instinct tells you, I might say. You feel a deadness in the ashes that's different from fresh ones. And then the looks tell you whether the dew has fallen on them or not. In this case Toby, I reckon, has found out that they seem mighty fresh; and so no night has passed since the last spark of fire died out. There are other ways of telling about how many nights ago it may have been made, if an old one. But you ought to make a practice of studying these things connected with fires, Giraffe, instead of being always wanting to make fresh blazes. You'd find the matter mighty interesting, and worth while, I give you my word."
"Say, that gives me an idea!" exploded the tall scout; "and mebbe I will. Just as you say, Allan, everybody's getting sore on me for wanting to always build fires and fires, and fires. I've been able to start 'em every which way, from flint and steel, to twirling a stick with a bow, after the style of them South Sea Islanders; and like old Alexander I'm cryin' for new worlds to conquer. Well, here they are, just like you say; and connected with fires too; right in my line, so to speak. Thank you for giving me the tip, Allan; I'm sure goin' to think it over."
"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Step Hen, fervently.
"Now, what d'ye say that for?" demanded Giraffe, taking umbrage at once.
"If ever you devote your colossal mind to the job of seeing how many ways fires can be put out, instead of started, the rest of us'll have a chance to get some decent sleep nights; because we won't be always afraid of the woods burnin' up with your crazy experiments," and Step Hen moved a little further away from his chum as he said this, not knowing how Giraffe might take it.
But the tall scout, after meditating over the matter for part of a minute only remarked indifferently:
"Oh! that's all right, Step Hen; you've got your faults too, and big ones in the bargain. Ask Bumpus here if my faculty for makin' fires didn't save us from a whole peck of trouble that time up in Maine when we found ourselves lost, a cold night comin' on, two partridges shot, and not a single match in the crowd to start a fire to cook the game and keep us from freezing stiff. He knows."
"That's right," declared the fat scout, instantly, and with a fond look toward Giraffe, as memories of the occasion referred to came trooping into his mind, so that he could almost smell the odor of those cooking birds, thrust near the delightful fire on the points of long splinters of wood.