“Especially such an experience as we had,” was the reply.
“When will we get to the deer territory?” called out Andy, from behind.
“We ought to strike a run by eleven or twelve o’clock,” replied Harry.
“Not habing a dorg is gwine to bodder us considerbul,” remarked Pickles. “It takes a good dorg to stir up de animiles.”
“Well, we’ll do the best we can without,” returned Jack. “Come on, for we have still several miles to go.”
On they went, over half-a-dozen hills and creeks, and up steep rocks and across deep ravines. Sometimes they traveled rapidly, and at others with extreme caution.
“Don’t fall into some hollow or hole and break a leg,” was Boxy’s caution, and it was a timely one.
Overhead the sun had been shining, but now it went under a bank of light clouds, and, as a consequence, it grew colder.
“I don’t like the cold,” remarked Jack. “But we can hunt better now than when the sun is too bright, to my way of thinking.”
Twelve o’clock found them ascending the side of a long hill, the last before the mountains should be reached. The thickets were almost impassable, and they looked in vain for some kind of a pathway.