“You have, have you?”
“Yes.” And then he explained his chain of reasoning.
“Now I call that clever,” said Ferguson, “and I believe you have hit the nail on the head. Don’t you want somebody to go with you?”
“No. There’s no danger. I shall carry my shot-gun. Besides, the camp must be guarded, and I don’t want to awaken the other two.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve had their watch; and besides, if I fail, there won’t be so many persons disappointed.”
“Sensible precaution, that.”
“I wish I had Mr. Hope-Jones’s compass.”
“Here it is. He gave it to me in the woods because his pocket is torn.”
“Let me have it, please. Mr. Ferguson, 5280 feet make a mile, do they not?”