“Go on; you’re only wasting time!” Nixon drew the other’s left arm with its moist cold hand around his neck—all the heat in Leon’s body had gone to swell the thunderstorm in his ankle.
And thus plowing, stumbling through the undergrowth, the scout’s right hand keeping the impudent twigs from poking his companion’s eyes out, they reached the narrow clearing along which the ambient light of a September sunset flowed like a golden river.
No coveted log shanty, where at least they could encamp for the night, decorated it.
But on its opposite side there loomed before the boys’ eyes as they issued from the woods a great, lichen-covered rock, over twenty feet high, with a deep cavernous opening that yawned like a sleepy mouth at sunset as it swallowed the rays streaming into it.
“Glory halleluiah! it’s the Bear’s Den—at last,” ejaculated Leon, pain momentarily eclipsed. “Thanks, Nix: you’re a horse!” as he withdrew his arm from his comrade’s shoulders. “But that cave is about five miles from anywhere—from any opening in the woods! What on earth are we going to do now?”
“Why! light a fire the first thing, I guess,” returned the boy scout practically.
CHAPTER VI
THE FRICTION FIRE