“He ought to be here by this time,” murmured Andy, for at least the tenth time.
“That’s so,” said Boxy. “He’s had four hours of daylight and more.”
“I dun racken he waited fo’ de sun to git wahmer,” said Pickles, and this proved to be the case.
The dinner was cooking over the stone oven when a shout was heard up the creek, and there appeared Jack, carrying on his strong young shoulders Len Spencer, while beside him walked Pete Sully with the game-bag and Bill Dixon with the guns. Every one of the crowd looked thoroughly tired out.
The boys around the campfire gave a cheer, to which Jack responded rather feebly. Sully and the others were too ashamed to utter a sound.
Andy and Boxy saw at a glance how mean they felt, and did what they could to make matters easy for them. They realized that the spirits of their enemies were broken, and they had no desire to do any heartless “crowing” because of this.
Sully and Dixon were able to take care of themselves, but Spencer had collapsed when almost in sight of camp, and had now to be given every possible care. He was laid in the hut, and Pickles made the boy who had been his own individual enemy a cup of broth which Spencer stowed away gratefully.
During the afternoon Sully was persuaded to tell his story, to which Dixon added his own experiences. We will not go into the details. Suffice it to say that the outing of the three had been a dismal failure from the start, and they were now anxious for but one thing—to get home again.
“I don’t see how you can get back, excepting you cross the lake and find a road to Rudd’s Landing,” said Harry.
“Isn’t there a railroad station down the lake on this side?” asked Dixon.