"It's just as simple as falling off a log, fellows," he said. "If a little kid were trying to make you understand that three men had gone down river in a boat, if he had any sense at all he'd draw a canoe with three figures in it holding paddles. A rock sticking up would have something that looked like foam on one side. That would tell you the water was running so, and that the canoe was going down the river. If they were being pursued, in the boat behind a figure would be firing a gun. Then they escape, for they go ashore and make a fire. All got away, for there are still three of them. And that's the easy way it goes. It just can't be too simple. A child might read it. And that's Indian picture writing. Now, suppose some of you try it. If anybody can read it right off the reel, then you've made a success of the job. But remember, this isn't any rebus or puzzle."
So for some time the boys employed themselves in practicing this simple art, under the directions of the young scout master. They found it lots of fun, and of course there was more or less shouting over some of the wonderful pictures drawn, which the artists themselves could hardly designate, after their work became cold.
Dr. Ted and Mark had gone off with some more food, to find out how Abe and his family were, after the exciting experience of the preceding day, and to tell them that their unwelcome visitors were by that time safely locked up in the Rockaway strong box.
Mark wished to get a few pictures of the two "kids" in their native woods. They would not look the same after they reached civilization, where kindly women would only too willingly take them in hand, and fit them out with new clothes.
Toby fairly haunted the spot where the balloon lay in a heap, just as they had piled it up. Doubtless the boy was indulging himself with castles in the air connected with the time to come, in the dim future, when he too might have a chance to fly through the clouds in one of these big gas bags, or with a modern aeroplane, which would of course be much better.
And so the day wore on.
As evening approached some of the boys mentally pictured Mr. Garrabrant talking with the good people of Hickory Ridge, and in each case it was a father or mother who so proudly heard what wonderful progress the boy was making in learning to take care of himself when left to his own resources.
Things went on as usual. They had plenty of trout for supper, of which dainty the scouts seemed never to tire. Then a huge mess of rice had been boiled, which, served with sugar and condensed milk, proved a good dessert. But before that was reached they had a stew made of tinned beef, Boston baked beans and some corn, while Ty Collins showed his skill as a flapjack maker by turning out several heaps of pretty fair pancakes.
Perhaps some of the scouts ate more heavily of these last than they should, for it was noted that at various times during the night a boy here or there would get to talking in his sleep, and show signs of restlessness that could only come from indigestion. Nevertheless, when the time came for retiring, Elmer gave the signal for taps to be sounded on the bugle, as Lil Artha declared, "everything was lovely, and the goose hung high!"