It was as well, therefore, for Joe that a severe blow on the head drove all sense and knowledge from him. He lay like a log for hours, and if we describe his condition faithfully, we must declare that the blow was not entirely responsible. Joe was fagged out with his long efforts; it happened, therefore, that a deep, refreshing sleep followed upon the unconsciousness produced by collision, and carried him well on into the morning. The shaded rays of a risen sun were streaming in upon his leafy prison when he finally opened his eyes.
"Hallo! Hank!" he called, and, getting no reply, turned to stare about him. "My word, don't my head hurt just! Now, how's that? Why, if—— Where am I?"
His brain was still muddled, though wonderfully refreshed, and for quite a little while he sat thinking, trying to remember exactly what had happened. Then the knowledge of his true position came to him—he was lost in the forest.
"And made a fine ass of myself, to be sure," he cried, remembering his fears of the previous evening.
"Lost my head; got scared at the silence, and then went barging right and left. This is the dickens of a muddle. Here am I, goodness knows where. Anyway, in Canada, I'm dead certain."
That set him laughing—for Joe was a merry fellow—moreover, the warm rays of the sun streaming down upon him, together with the fact that the past few days had accustomed him to his surroundings, cheered him wonderfully. He began to whistle, an old habit, and then recollected that he was hungry.
"I'll be better for some food, that's certain," he told himself. "I can't think properly as yet. But there's one thing I am sure of—I behaved like a child of two last night. I clean lost my head, and am jolly glad there wasn't anyone else here to watch me. My, how Hank would laugh, and Fennick too! Wonder how he and his wife are doing, and Jim and Claude too. Wonder, also, whether Hurley's captured."
Quite accidentally his hand fell into the bag which he had suspended over his shoulder, and it was with a gasp of pleasure that he remembered that provisions were inside. Joe dragged them out, and, just to show his independence, gathered some sticks and lit a fire. Water was what he wanted now, and a search for that commodity told him still more of his own condition of mind on the previous evening; for his way took him along the track he had himself formed, and presently he came to a part which looked very much as if a circus horse had been driven there, and forced to carry out all sorts of evolutions. Tracks led through the underwood to right and left, crossed one another, and joined sometimes so that two or three were side by side. In one he came upon his rifle, a find which caused him pleasure; but where the outlet was, in what direction he had been coming when he reached this spot, Joe could discover not the smallest inkling.
"Anyway, there's water," he said, filling the kettle which he carried slung to his belt, and which had received a sad battering in the forest. "Jolly glad I've got the tea—that'll put life into me—then I'll have to think this matter out; shouldn't wonder if a shot wouldn't bring an answer."
It was a brilliant idea, and cheered him wonderfully. Let us say, too, that Joe needed cheering. In spite of his undoubted courage, and of a naturally cheery disposition, the terror of the intense silence of his huge prison sometimes almost got the better of him. It was with an obvious effort that he beat down the feeling. Retracing his steps to the fire and busying himself with his cooking preparations helped him wonderfully, and when at length he had swallowed a hot cup of tea and had eaten a couple of grilled slices of meat he felt distinctly better.