“Did you know you were walking within half an inch of a ditch? How is it you didn’t fall in?” he demanded savagely of me.
“Are you hurt?” I counter-questioned anxiously.
“Not a bit! The water was just deep enough to cover me entirely, except my knapsack. That seems dry,” he answered, feeling himself all over. “I’ve lost my hat, though.”
“Anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so. Never mind the old hat. I hardly ever wear it.”
“Come on, then! Keep moving, or you’ll catch a chill.”
After about one hour and a half, during which a number of paths had demonstrated the unreliability of our maps in this locality, none of them being marked, a cart road on our left proved too much of a temptation for me.
“Are you fellows game,” I asked, “to follow me over uncharted ground? I feel certain I can do better by compass alone, and probably save us several miles.”
“Don’t make speeches, old man; get along. We’ll follow.”
I was fortunate in being able to justify this move. Three quarters of an hour afterward we struck a highway a mile in front of the village of Spahn, our nearest objective. Pleased with myself, I announced a clear gain of about three miles. Here we took it easy for about twenty minutes, sitting in the road, with our feet in the ditch. Kent and Tynsdale had a draft from the brandy flask, and we all had something to eat.