“We’re heading right, don’t you think, Zeb?” asked Rob presently, being desirous of confirming his own opinion, and knowing that the experienced guide and woodsman could be depended on to be accurate.
“Straight as a die, younker,” the man told him, and then added: “I’m a heap s’prised to see how you boys kerry on. ’Tain’t every lad from the towns that could pick out a sound like you done, and then direct that way. I guess thar must be a heap o’ sense in this here scout business, an’ I gotter take off my hat to it, that’s a fack.”
Words like that give a scout a warm feeling in the region of his heart. Appreciation is always welcome when genuine; to be complimented by an expert like Big Zeb, the man who had served Uncle George for ten years as guide and handy man in camp, was thrice pleasant. Still, both Rob and Andy were used to hearing people say nice things, and it never brought on a case of “swelled head” with such sensible fellows.
A short time later on Rob spoke again.
“I tried to take into consideration the fact that the wind wasn’t altogether favorable, and also that the chap called as if he might be hoarse from weakness or excitement. So I figured that he couldn’t be more than a quarter of a mile off at the time. How did you make out, Andy?”
“Oh! I thought he was further than that, say two-thirds of a mile as the crow flies; but I didn’t count on his being exhausted, as you say, Rob.”
“If you asked me, younkers,” said Zeb, “I’d fix it atween the two o’ you. I should say we’d a’ready gone nearly a quarter o’ a mile from camp. But we ain’t heard nary a sign o’ him yet. S’pose we let out a call, and tried fur a raise?”
“A good idea, Zeb,” admitted the scout master. Raising his voice he called out: “Hello! there, where are you?”
Almost immediately they heard a half-stifled cry that seemed to be full of partly suppressed joy.
“This way, over here to your left, man! Oh! please hurry up. I’m in a sair bad fix, and there’s an awfu’ need o’ haste!”