“Harry, now don’t spoil it all, whatever you do. I won’t vote for sending up a signal—there’s no use asking me. We’re going to find them. And everything is going fine. Gracious, I was scared when I lost that compass, but now I know it’s the regular thing to do, Harry. Now, there was a fellow they called the Black Ranger, and he did the same thing, and it said that without food or compass and limping from his wound, he pressed on with dauntless courage. And we’ve even got the limp, Harry—if it don’t go and get well before we find them. We ought not to find them, Harry, till we are well-nigh exhausted.”
“How’s that?”
“We ought to drag ourselves, weary but triumphant, into camp.”
“Hmmm,” said Harry.
He lay awake long, thinking. They might kindle a large signal fire on the mountain, but that, if it were seen, would lessen the triumph of finding the camp. It would be, in a way, calling for assistance, and he did not like the idea any more than Gordon did.
The morning dawned dull and cloudy; it bade fair to be a repetition of the previous day. Gordon slept long, and when he awoke he found the shelter empty save for himself. While he was pulling on his things, Harry came in, his mood wholly out of keeping with the weather.
“Hello there, Kiddo! Here are some minnows for breakfast.”
“Hello! I guess we won’t see any sign of campfire to-night. Doesn’t this weather beat all!”
“Don’t grumble about the weather now. This is just the day to do my sewing. I’ve got to patch up your stocking and fix you up generally, so that if you should meet any maidens you’ll be in shape to recount your adventures.”
“What’ll be our next move, Harry?”