"Yes, snow will be thick through here when we finally finish, I guess," added Jiminy Gordon, surveying the forest.
"Well, the Doctair Lyman he say he not such great rush," smiled the Canadian. Then he paused and seemed to search into the very heart of the wood with his coal black eyes, and all this time he kept sniffing the air.
"Camp 'round here sure. One no good camp too, mebby," said he finally as he pointed toward the west.
"I thought I smelled the smoke of a camp fire," said Bruce.
"So did I," added Jiminy.
"I smell heem smoke, I smell heem scraps, too. No good camp, no know woods. Mebby heem get seek. Come on. We all through now. We find 'em wood road now soon. Doctair Lyman heem line run cross by that blaze over tair; you see heem, huh? Heem end of Doctair Lyman's wood."
"So that's the line, eh? Well, twenty-five acres of woods is a lot of territory, isn't it, Bruce?" said Jimmy, as he picked up his scout hatchet and slipped into his belt.
The Canadian wrenched his hatchet free from the poplar and started swinging westward between the trees and the two Quarry Troop scouts fell in behind him in single file. And as they walked on the smell of the camp lire, and the tainted odor that emanates from a camp's garbage dump grew stronger to their nostrils.
Then presently the camp itself loomed up at the very side of the wood road for which the Canadian lumberman was headed.
A single wall tent of large proportions was the most conspicuous thing about the place. This had its flaps pinned back and in the doorway, reclining on a collapsible canvas camp chair with a bandage-swathed foot propped up on a soap box sat one of the occupants.