"But what made that wound?" asked Jack.
"I suspect the cause."
He drew up the legging and examined the part that covered the spot in the ankle which had received the blow.
"There! I knew it! That's what did it!"
He had plucked out a small, needle-pointed thorn. The bushes abounded with similar prongs, one of which had been torn off and pierced the legging of Jack when he was crashing through the tops of the bushes.
"Sure there isn't any mistake about that?" asked the youth, feeling as if a mountain were lifted from his shoulders.
"There can't be."
"Wait a minute!"
With one bound the happy fellow came to his feet, and throwing his arms about his comrade, hugged him into temporary breathlessness.
"Thank the Lord! Richard's himself again! The V. W. W. are born to good fortune."