“Yelling. That’s the way a baby does when it wants to attract attention, and it generally accomplishes its purpose. That’s why I call it nature’s own method. Besides, it covers more ground than looking can, especially in an undergrowth as thick as that around this little open spot.”
“It is rather thick,” said Larry, looking round him.
“Thick? Why, a cane brake is wind-swept prairie land in comparison. Let’s yell all together and see if we can’t make the hermit of Quasi hear.”
The experiment was tried, not once, but many times, with no effect, and a search of the immediate vicinity proved equally futile.
“There seems to be nothing to do but wait,” Larry declared, at last. “The man in distress must have gone away in search of food. He is starving perhaps, and—”
“Not quite that,” said Cal. “He may be craving a tapioca pudding or some other particular article of diet, but he isn’t starving.”
“How do you know, Cal?”
“Oh, it is only that he has a haunch of venison—sun-crusted for purposes of preservation—hanging in that tree there”—pointing—“and unless he is more different kinds of a lunatic than the chief engineer of any insane asylum ever heard of, he wouldn’t starve with that on hand.”
“Perhaps it is spoiled,” said Tom, looking up the tree where the venison hung and where Cal alone had seen it.
“It isn’t spoiled, either,” answered Cal, with assurance.