"You are not a safe person to be at large."
"Neither is he," retorted Stacy.
"I give up," laughed Tad. "There is no such thing as having the last word in an argument with you."
"Of course there isn't. That's what my aunt says, so she uses a stick. I can't answer that in the same way."
Tad halted to search for some torch wood. He found some after poking around in the dark for nearly half an hour. Some of the wood he gave to Stacy, and lighted a torch for himself. The torch flared up, sending ghostly shadows through the forest, causing the owls to break out in a chorus of angry protest.
Tad was now able to see the trail, though the light made the trail deceiving, requiring the utmost caution in following it. Once off the trail, the boy knew that they would be obliged to spend the night in the swamp or the canebrake, for to move about would be to get farther into the depths of the forest.
Stacy grumbled at their slow progress, but Tad's patience was the patience of the experienced woodsman who moved slowly, observing everything about him, listening to all sounds, thinking of everything that a woodsman in the depth of the forest should think of.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening when Tad halted and held up one hand.
"What is it?" whispered Chunky.
"I thought I heard a horn."