"Didn't know it would take so long to creep up on 'em this morning," said Blackie. "The women'll have somethin' when we get back."
"They better," said Mike.
He measured a slender branch with his eye. After a moment, he pulled out a hunting knife, worn thin by years of sharpening, and cut off a straight section of the branch. He began whittling.
"You damn' fool!" Sid objected. "You want the busted spot on the tree to show?"
"Aw, they ain't got the brains to notice."
"The hell they ain't! It stands out like one o' them old street signs. D'ya think they can tell, Blackie?"
"I dunno. Maybe." Blackie rose cautiously to peer over a bed of blackberry bushes. "Guess I'll skin up a tree an' see if anything's in sight."
He hitched up his pants, looking for an easy place to climb. His blue denims had been stoutly made, but weakened by many rips and patches, and he did not want to rip them on a snag. It was becoming difficult to find good, unrotted clothing in the old ruins.
Choosing a branch slightly over his head, he sprang for it, pulled, kicked against the trunk, and flowed up into the foliage with no apparent effort. The others waited below. Sid glanced up occasionally, Vito idly kicked at one of the clubs made from an old two-by-four.