"Well, there's no use going into that part of it," spoke Tom. "The question is, what are we going to do?"
"Get back on the main road as soon as we can," suggested Bert, "and stick to it, hills or no hills, I never wanted to come this way anyhow."
"Neither did I," asserted Tom, a bit nettled.
In a short time they had several improvised torches, made of bark, and, each one lighting his own, and holding it down close to the ground, they started off again.
"Here comes a shower!" exclaimed Tom, as he felt the first drops of a
September storm. "Lucky we got the dry bark in time."
"Say, but this is punk!" grumbled Bert, as he stumbled on in the half-darkness.
By carefully noting the path, and keeping to it, they managed to avoid going in a circle again. Their torches smoked and spluttered, as the rain increased, and, though they were under the shelter of trees, they soon were quite wet.
"Cross-country runs!" murmured Jack, as he stepped into a bog-hole up to his ankles. "No more for yours truly!"
"It's all in the game," said Tom, with a laugh. "We'll soon be out of it."
"We're out of it now," snapped Bert, looking at his watch. "We've got half an hour to make the gym, for it's half-past seven now, and I'll wager a can of beans that we're five miles from it."