“Right!” said Don, as they started up the slope. “Feel equal to a good stiff run?”
“Sure,” smiled Jordan. “Let’s hit a steady pace.”
Gaining the top of the rise they fell into a steady run along the top, away from the camp and toward the town on the far side of the Ridge. They were following a general direction, which was not entirely blind, for far ahead of them they heard a faint cracking sound that seemed to be made by someone running recklessly. Their route did not keep them long on the top of the hill, for the ghost had taken to the deeper shelter of the trees lower down and they plunged down the slope, threading their way in between the trees.
They almost fell over a figure that was before them in the woods. It was Cadet Owens, and he was sitting on a rock, hugging his foot. His shoe was off and he was breathing hard.
“Hurt yourself?” Jordan called.
“Not much,” gasped Owens. “Got my shoe caught in a piece of rock and twisted my ankle. But I’ll be able to walk. Keep on going straight ahead. We didn’t lose sight of him.”
The other two plunged on, following a straight line. They did not expect to overtake the others, for Terry and Jim in particular were fast runners and they had had a good start. All they could hope to do was to be in at the finish if there was a finish, and with this in mind they ran on.
“Rough going!” gasped Don, as they began to ascend a second rolling hill.
“Nothing else but!” returned Jordan, running steadily.
On the top of the hill they found themselves in familiar country. Far ahead of them was the tiny cabin of Peter Vancouver and above them was the big, barnlike house that they had observed at the time they first took the hike to the old man’s place. Now they were somewhat at a loss, and slowed up a bit in their running.