“It’s as easy as pie not to get lost,” he said. “You stay right here with your flashlight, and I’ll go in the direction the broken twigs point until I find the next one; then you come to where I am and stand there with your flashlight while I swish on to the next one, and we can keep doing that from one to another until we get there.”
“Get where?” I asked.
“Where the treasure is buried,” he said with an impatient voice.
“But we haven’t anything to dig with,” I said, in a voice just as impatient.
We stood for a little while arguing with each other as to what to do and whether to do it. “Let’s try it anyway!” Poetry said. “You stay here till I go and see if I can find the next one. Keep your flashlight turned off as much as you can, to save the battery,” he ordered, and for some reason, I, Robinson Crusoe, gave up and let my fat goat be the leader....
Away he went in a sort of a zig—zag style in the general direction the broken twigs pointed.
I could hear him swishing around, up ahead of me. It felt awful spooky here in this dark woods with my light turned off, and only little patches of moonlight around me, coming through the leaves and pine needles of the trees overhead.
After about four minutes, Poetry’s half bass and half soprano voice called to me saying, “Hey, turn on your flashlight, so I can find out where I am!”
I turned on my light, and shot its long beam in the direction from which I had heard his voice, and he shined his toward me. Then his half worried voice called and said, “Is your broken twig pointing toward me?”
“No!” I said. “You’re off in a different direction. Why don’t we get out of here and go home? I don’t think we can follow any trail tonight.”