"Say, boss, isn't it time we struck the boys' tracks?" one asked.
"Yes," said Gerald, recognizing that much depended on how he handled the situation. "We should have picked them up this morning."
The men were silent for a moment.
"Looks as if we'd got off our line," one of them then said resolutely. "How were you heading?"
"Northwest, magnetic."
"No, sir. You were a piece to the west of that."
"You think so?"
The man laughed harshly.
"Sure! I was raised among the timber; guess I've broken too many trails not to know where I'm going."
"Well," said Gerald in a confidential tone, "I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to make you uneasy, but I'm afraid this compass is unreliable. It hasn't been swiveling as it ought; oil frozen on the cap, perhaps, or the card warped against the glass. I tried to adjust it once or twice, but my fingers were too cold." He held it out awkwardly for them to examine, and it dropped from his mittens. Clutching at it, he lost his balance and crushed the compass beneath the wooden bow of his shoe.