“What?” ejaculated both Step Hen and Giraffe, amazed by his declaration, that filled them with dismay.
“The rain washed it all out, you see,” Allan went on to explain.
“But—how are we agoin’ to find Bumpus, then?” Step Hen gasped.
Again the Maine boy shrugged his shoulders, and there was something very expressive about the movement.
“Ask me something easy, please? I confess I’m all up in the air. I don’t know how we can find our chum, unless by an accident, later on, we came upon his fresh trail again, made after the storm. And that’s supposing a good many things, you see, one of which is that he’s come out of the racket safe and sound.”
“Whew! strikes me we’ve got as much chance of running across him as we’d have finding a needle in a haystack,” ventured Giraffe.
“Just about as much,” Allan replied, looking downcast.
As long as there was any trail to find, Allan was not the one to give up; he would hang on tenaciously while a shred of hope remained. But with the tracks of Bumpus positively washed out by the downpour from the clouds, it was useless wasting time in looking for any “signs.”
Even Thad seemed serious now.
Troubles were accumulating thick and fast, for the missing member of the Silver Fox Patrol. Though thus far Bumpus seemed to have surmounted his trials and difficulties, he might have been caught unawares by that furious storm. And what if he had been tempted to seek shelter in a hollow tree, not having a wise scoutmaster handy, to warn against the evil of such a thing? Giraffe and Step Hen felt very uneasy at even the thought.