“The one who gets the shortest stick is elected.”
Loren and Ralph made selection, and Tom was left with the shortest stick in his hand. Of course he was mad about it. He always was when he was beaten.
CHAPTER XIII.
JOE WAYRING’S PLUCK.
Sometimes there is more in drawing lots than those who take part in it imagine, and so it proved in this instance. If Ralph or Loren had drawn the shortest stick, some things that I have yet to tell of never would have happened.
“I’m elected,” said Tom, spitefully, “but I’ll stand by the agreement. I have plenty of time to go down to camp and return before dark, so I will wait and see what Wayring is going to do.”
“Do you want to go with him?” inquired Ralph.
“How can I when we are going home in the morning?”
“Then what difference does it make to you where Wayring goes?”
“I don’t know that it makes any difference. I simply wish to satisfy my curiosity.”
It did not take many minutes to do that. After a little more conversation with Mr. Swan Joe came toward the storehouse, in front of whose open door Tom and his cousins were standing. There they met Morris, the guide, who cautioned them against quarreling with their compass in case they found themselves bewildered in the unbroken wilderness through which they must pass in order to reach No-Man’s Pond. When Joe and his chums came out of the store with their loaded camp-baskets on their back, Morris also came out and accosted Tom.