But all the best intentions seemed to go wrong that day, and it did not take an hour's marching before Bob stopped and turned to his chum with a crestfallen countenance.
"Look here, old man, I don't know what you're thinking, but my own opinion is——"
"That we've missed the path; that we are lost——"
"I'm afraid that is the truth of it. You see, we've never come to any of the places that we had to clear with the tomahawk."
"Then what's to be done?" Alf questioned.
Arnold took out his watch and looked at it.
"What's to be done? Grub. That's the first thing. After that we can make fresh plans. It's noon now, and we can do nothing while we're hungry. Besides—well, to tell the truth, I'm feeling a little tired."
"I, too," responded Alf, with a faint smile. "I didn't want to say so while I thought you wished to go on——"
"Just my own idea," Bob returned, with a slight laugh, as he lowered himself to a soft place under the shadow of a large maple. "So we'll rest here and have a bite. We'll feel better afterwards."
The little camp was made, and a meal was enjoyed from the contents of Bob's haversack—biscuits and cold venison. Neither of the lads thought it was worth while to trouble about shooting and cooking a meal just then. They would reserve that till night, in the event of their not being able to find Crane Creek again.