“I know that the cave called the Bear’s Den is not quite a mile from Bishop’s grave, but I haven’t the least idea of how to go about reaching it,” he admitted. “A logging-road passes the cave; that might lead us somewhere. I wish we could strike a stream.”
“So do I! My mouth is dry as dust; I’m parched with thirst.” Nixon, as he spoke, stooped, picked up a round pebble, inserted it between his dry palate and tongue and began sucking on it, as on a gum-drop.
“What on earth are you doing that for?” questioned Leon sharply; the nerves in his tired body were now jangling like an instrument out of tune; together with his three companions he was cross as a thorn—ready to quarrel with his own shadow.
“’What am I doing it for?’ Why! to start the saliva,” quavered the scout, sucking hard; “to prevent me from feeling the thirst so much.”
“Blamed rubbish!” Starrie Chase snorted. “As if sucking a stone like a baby would do you any good!”
“Everything is ‘rubbish,’ except what you know yourself; and that’s next to nothing!” Nixon was now equally cross. “You don’t know half as much about the woods as your dog does. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d have been out of this place long ago! ”
“Oh! you think you’re It, because you’re a boy scout, but I think the opposite!”
“Shut up! Don’t give me any of your ‘jaw’!”
But there was a sudden, queer contortion of the scout’s face on the last word.
Abruptly he stalked on, humming to himself—a curious-looking being, with his painted face and dazed eyes under the broad-brimmed hat.