There was a pause—the boys knew what it meant to be out in the woods in a snowstorm, without the little swinging needle to guide them.
“What did you do with the one you had, Bart?” asked Frank. “You had one, didn’t you, when you were out after the deer, and saw the man?”
“Sure I did, but I took it out of my pocket when I stuffed this lunch in, and must have forgotten to put it back. I remember now, I left it on the box in the tent. But I thought you fellows would sure have one.”
“Well, we haven’t,” said Frank, with an uneasy laugh. “What’s to be done?”
“Oh, I dare say we can get back—somehow,” went on Bart. “Come on, fellows. I think I know the way.”
They started off, with no light hearts, and tramped through the blinding snow, but it was with little confidence. Several times Bart stopped to get his bearings. Once he and Fenn disputed about a certain turn, and Bart so insisted that he was right, that the other two lads agreed with him. It grew darker, and they wandered into drifts, stumbled into unexpected hollows, and brought up against trees, sometimes falling over stumps. At last Bart said:
“Fellows, there’s no use going on this way any farther. I’m off the track. I shouldn’t have started out. The fact of the matter is that we’re lost in the woods, and we’ve got to make the best of it!”