Ted sat down for what he was sure would be a long wait. He had climbed to this place in twenty-five minutes, but he was eighteen years old.
An hour later, he heard John Wilson's, "Hall-oo!"
"Here!" Ted yelled.
Carrying his hat, streaming perspiration, but entirely happy, John Wilson panted up to join him.
"He went out," he said cheerfully, "and I'll swear he flushed no more than twenty yards ahead of you! Thought sure you'd see him."
"Where'd he go?"
"Quartered up the mountain and crossed the summit just a little to the right of some white birches."
Ted nodded. The course described by John Wilson had kept the big buck in thick cover all the way. It was the route he might have been expected to take, except that there were a dozen others with brush just as thick. However, there was every chance that he would go the same way a second time and tomorrow morning John Wilson would be posted in the birches while Ted tried to drive the buck through.
"What's it like on top?" John Wilson asked.
"Patches of laurel and rhododendron. We'll go see what we can do."