“We could do that if it wasn’t that the stream winds around so much,” put in Jack. “In a direct line the lake is not over twelve miles from here, but like as not that stream would take us thirty or forty miles.”
“Not quite as far as that, but still a pretty good way,” said Harry. “I know these creeks around here twist and turn in all directions.”
“We’ll stick by the original intention, and be guided by the sun,” said Boxy. “Come on, Harry, I’ll race you to the top of the next hill!” and off he sped, with Harry at his heels.
When the top of the hill was reached both boys were well-nigh exhausted, and ready enough to sit down on a fallen tree and wait for the others to come up.
“You shouldn’t do that,” remonstrated Jack. “You’ll tire yourselves out before you have covered half the day’s journey.”
“And you’ll get sweated and take cold,” put in Andy.
“If you feel so frisky, help Pickles with the sled,” went on Jack.
“We will,” cried both Harry and Boxy, and they at once relieved Pickles, much to his satisfaction, for the pull up the hill had been by no means an easy one.
And so, “cutting up like wild Indians,” as Jack expressed it, they continued on their tramp, up one hill and down another, crossing half-a-dozen tiny streams, and making their way through dense woods and thick patches of brush and heaps of rocks. Occasionally they roused up a squirrel or a rabbit, and once the loud drumming told them that partridges were not far off.
Just before the noon hour Jack took his gun, and kept his eyes open for rabbits. It was not long before he shot two, and when they came to a halt for dinner these were quickly skinned and broiled over the fire Pickles kindled.