Bert’s words struck rather a chill to the hearts of his chums. Not that they were cowards, for they were not, and they had faced danger before, and were used to doing things for themselves.
But now they were in a strange, mountain wilderness, following an unknown trail, and night was coming on rapidly. The storm had already burst, and it was growing worse momentarily.
“Do you really think we are lost?” questioned Jack, looking about him as well as he could in the maze of white.
“Don’t you?” responded Bert. “I can’t make out the least sign of a trail in these woods, and we have to follow one to get to Camp No. 3, you know.”
“Yes, that’s right,” put in George. “We are going it blind.”
“We’ve been going according to compass, since we gave up the hunt for the bear,” commented Tom.
“Well, it will be more by good luck than good management if we find either camp now,” said Bert. “But come on—we’ve got to do something.”
“Which way shall we go?” asked George. “We don’t want to get lost any worse than we are.”
“We can’t!” spoke Bert, dryly—that is, as “dryly” as he could with snow forcing itself into his mouth. “We’re as lost as we’ll ever be. The thing now is to start finding ourselves.”
“Let’s try this way,” proposed Tom, indicating the left. “According to my compass Camp No. 3 ought to lie off about there.”