Consternation had undoubtedly fallen upon the camp of the scouts, just as though a wet blanket had suddenly been thrown on some pet project. It would have been a matter of more or less concern had Davy Jones failed to turn up after a day’s hunt in the big timber, or Giraffe, or Step Hen; but Bumpus, why, no one save himself had ever seriously contemplated the possibility of the fat boy going astray.
And yet, now that they thought of it, how many times had they heard him prophesying that if ever he did find himself wandering about alone, he would know how to take care of himself? Bumpus had for a long time been making preparations looking to such a happening. The remembrance of this seemed to cheer the others up a little, after the first shock had passed.
“He was always dreading just this same thing,” said Davy Jones.
“And getting ready against the evil day,” remarked Allan.
“That was why he bought his little compass,” put in Giraffe.
“Ditto his camp hatchet,” added Step Hen.
“And I reckon, suh,” observed the Southern boy, “that Bumpus had it in mind more than anything else when he took to carrying that piece of window sash cord around with him.”
“Sure thing,” Giraffe went on. “I’ve heard him say it was apt to come in handy lots of times.”
“And it did,” broke in Davy Jones, earnestly. “If it hadn’t been for that same handy rope, fellows, there’s no telling what would have happened to me; or what gloom might be ahangin’ over this here camp right now.”
“Good old Bumpus!” murmured Smithy, quite affected.