“What’s that?” cried Bert. “Aren’t we going toward camp?”
“That’s what I can’t say,” was Tom’s answer, as he whistled for the dog. “We may, and then, again, we may not.”
“But where are we heading, then?” George wanted to know, as Tom proceeded to tie the cord on Towser’s collar.
“That’s more than I can say,” Tom made answer. “We’re in the hands of fate, as they say in books.”
“Well, I’d rather hang to Towser’s tail,” spoke Jack, with grim humor.
“I’m sorry I got you fellows into this mess,” went on Tom, as they advanced again through the storm and darkness, this time keeping the dog closer to them by means of the cord.
“What mess?” asked Bert.
“Getting lost, and all that.”
“Forget it!” advised Jack. “It wasn’t your fault at all. You wanted to go back to No. 2 Camp, and the rest of us favored this move. I wish, now, we had taken your advice.”
“Oh, well, mine was only a guess,” Tom said. “We might have been as badly off had we gone the other way. We’ll just have to trust to luck. Come on. But what I meant was that coming out to-day to hunt was my proposition. I was afraid there was a storm coming.”