No one was willing to back down, so no one answered him, though each one had his own private opinion about it.
True to his word Merton wriggled into his pack sack immediately after lunch and called for volunteers. Scott was the only one ready to join him at once, and those two swung off up the road, leaving the others still hovering around undecided.
“Good-bye, fellows,” Merton called back to them. “We’ll see you at White Earth if you ever get there.”
“Don’t you be sarcastic,” Greenleaf called after them, “we’ll be there to welcome you.”
The two boys trudged on steadily; not very fast—for the road was too long ahead of them—but at a pace which would land them many miles on their road by nightfall.
“If we only knew the road,” Scott said, “it would not be so bad; but there is no telling how far we shall have to walk to get there.”
“No, and they say there are no settlers in that country except Indians. They could tell us the way, but most likely they won’t.”
“Someone was telling me,” Scott said, “that there is a lumber camp over there somewhere with a logging road running where we want to go. I hope we can strike it.”
“That would help some.”
They had no trouble for the first eight miles. The road lay straight, though exceedingly rough, before them; but at that point they came to the first obstacle, a fork in the road.