They could not help cheering. “At last!” cried they. But this triumph gave way to doubts.
“I am afraid we are not clear yet,” said Robinson. “See, there is wood again on the other side. Why, it is that sticky clay again. Why, George, it is the clearing we crossed before breakfast.”
“You are talking nonsense, Tom,” cried George, angrily.
“No, I am not,” said the other, sadly. “Come across. We shall soon know by our footsteps in the clay.”
Sure enough, half way across they found a track of footsteps. George was staggered. “It is the place, I really think,” said he. “But, Tom, when you talk of the footsteps, look here? You and I never made all these tracks. This is the track of a party.”
Robinson examined the ground.
“Tracks of three men; two barefoot, one in nailed boots.”
“Well, is that us?”
“Look at the clearing, George, you have got eyes. It is the same.”
“So 'tis, but I can't make out the three tracks.”