“No, don’t do that,” cried Pen.
“Why not? Hadn’t I better take the muskets?”
“No. You are more likely to get help for me if you go without arms; and, besides, Punch,” added Pen, with a faint smile, “I might want the muskets to defend myself against the wolves.”
“All right,” replied the boy, replacing the two clumsy French pieces by his comrade’s side. “Keep up your spirits, old chap; I won’t be long.”
The next minute the boy had plunged into the thicket-like outskirts of the forest, where he stopped short to look back and mentally mark the great chestnut-tree.
“I shall know that,” he said, “from ever so far off. It is easy to ’member by the trunk, which goes up twisted like a screw. Now then, which way had I better go?”
Punch had a look round as far as the density of the foliage would allow him, and then gave his head a scratch.
“Oh dear!” he muttered, “who’s to know which way to go? It’s regular blind-man’s buff. How many horses has your father got? Shut your eyes, comrade. Now then. Three! What colour? Black, white, and grey. Turn round three times and catch who you may.”
The boy, with his eyes tightly closed and his arms spread out on either side, turned round the three times of the game, and then opened his eyes and strode right away.
“There can’t be no better way than chancing it,” he said. “But hold hard! Where’s my tree?”