"So as to make more of a black smoke, which will be of considerable help to us in finding our way back to camp," Max informed him.
"Ok, yes, I see," Bandy-legs went on, shooting a look full of admiration toward his companion; "it certainly does take you to think up the best things ever. Now, that wouldn't have occurred to me in a thousand years."
"This walking isn't so bad after all, is it?" asked Max, quick to change the subject when he saw signs of the other breaking out in praise of his woodcraft.
"That's right," his chum admitted; "only I hope we don't meet up with anything that's going to make us sorry we didn't fetch a gun along."
"Not much chance of that," Max argued.
"But then you know there is something loose in this neck of the woods that's got us guessing. What it can be beats my time. A tiger'd most likely pounced on poor old Ebenezer, and paid mighty little attention to our smoked meat; he'd want the fresh stuff right off the reel."
Bandy-legs making a misstep just about then, and almost rolling down a little declivity, found that he had better pay more attention to his gait and talk less; so for some time they walked along in silence.
"There, did you hear that?" Max asked him, presently.
"It certainly was a rooster crowing," the other admitted.
"And right ahead of us, too," Max continued; "which goes to show that we've been hitting the right trail."