Turning aside from the road, the Cubs climbed a rail fence and made their way through the thickets. Picking a trail carefully, Mr. Hatfield led them single file.
“Quiet, boys,” he advised as Babe kept shuffling his feet through the dry leaves. “No use advertising ourselves.”
Before the Cubs had gone far into the woods, they could smell the aroma of food cooking.
Mr. Hatfield signaled for the boys to slow their pace. Treading noiselessly, they approached with caution.
At the edge of a small clearing the Cub leader abruptly halted.
Eager to see what it was that had drawn and held their leaders attention, the boys closed in about him.
“Can you beat that!” Dan whispered.
Directly ahead was a wind-sheltered hollow, framed by bare trees. A camp fire had been built close to the banks of a winding stream. On a crudely constructed spit, a dressed rabbit slowly broiled over the coals.
The one who turned the spit had his back to the Cubs. He was wrapped deeply in a heavy coat many sizes too large for his lean frame. Beside him lay a rifle.
But even though the Cubs could not see the lad’s face, they recognized him instantly. The one who sat so contentedly by his fire, gazing off into space, was Jack Phillips.