Crossing the narrow, log bridge, Phillipe and the three explorers lost themselves in the dense vegetation. For hours, they hacked their way through tough creepers, and at times were compelled to chop down small saplings.
By noon, as the party rested and ate a cold lunch, it was difficult for the Scouts to maintain their customary good cheer. Although accustomed to hard, outdoor work, the boys suffered from strained muscles and aching backs.
“We’re making about a mile every two hours,” Ken calculated gloomily. “Maybe less. Phillipe, are you sure you’re taking us the right way?”
“This the way,” the miner replied. “Trail very bad.”
After resting, the Scouts forced themselves to continue, though they had long ago lost zest for the adventure.
Phillipe seemed to know exactly where he was headed, yet as the day wore on, the Explorers began to lose faith that he ever could lead them to the lost Spanish mine. Then, the little miner seemed to become less certain. They saw him studying the ridges with puzzled eyes, and occasionally shaking his head as if confused.
“Phillipe doesn’t know where he’s going,” Ken said to Jack as the party made another halt. “The vegetation has closed in since he saw that mine. This trip was a mistake.”
Phillipe would not admit confusion. But after another hour of hard labor had brought them to a relatively clear area overlooking the river, he had to admit defeat.
“Very sorry, Senor,” he apologized to Mr. Livingston.
Phillipe’s regret was so genuine that the Scouts could not believe that he had betrayed them deliberately. His intentions, undoubtedly, had been good. Given several days to search, they might find the lost mine. But in the present circumstance, the quest must be abandoned.