In a few minutes his tall form emerged from the thicket.
"I beg to report, sir," he said to Morton with mock solemnity, "that the main road to somewhere is about three-quarters of a mile to the northward."
"What on earth do you mean, old man?"
"Just what I say. After fighting my way through some of the most awful scrub I ever met with, I came to a fine clear road—gas-lamps, milestones, and probably bridges and public-houses."
"Well, we'd better go there at once. I wonder you came back without patronizing one of the pubs."
"I did not exactly see all that I have stated, but I have no doubt whatever of their existence," returned Brown. "Joking apart, there really is a cleared track out there, but we'll have to cut a road to get the horses there."
"This bangs everything into a dust-heap. But it's getting late and we had better shape. Charlie, you and Billy go ahead with the tomahawks, and we will dodge the horses along after you."
It took time, labour, and patience to make the distance indicated by Brown; but about an hour before sundown, to the astonishment of three of them, they stood upon what was evidently a cleared track, about the width of an ordinary bridle-track. Morton examined the stumps, and pointed out that the work had been done by stone tomahawks. Billy looked for tracks, but none had been made since the rain from the last thunder-storm had fallen.
"It's running westward. I suppose it's all right to follow it, but this sort of thing beats my experience. What say you, Brown?" asked Morton.
"Forward, gentlemen, while the light lasts," was the reply of that individual.