A day’s tramp southward along the Vermont shore brought them opposite Ticonderoga about dusk. Far inland, when the view was unobstructed, they could see the hazy outline of the Green Mountains, and across on the New York side, Harry pointed out the frowning, shaggy head of old Bulwagga, and farther on, the less forbidding height of Dibble Mountain, from whose summit they had seen the smoke which lured them northward only to find a heap of ashes.
“But you found us just the same, didn’t you, Harry?” said Mac.
“Did you think he wouldn’t?” said Gordon, contemptuously. (It was noticeable that he did not say we; he said he.) “He found you right at the biological moment, too.”
“Psychological,” corrected Red Deer, smiling.
“He’s all right, is Harry boy,” said Charlie Greer.
“So’s G. Lord,” said some one else.
“Harry,” said the doctor, “this is private land we’re coming to. Guess we’ll have to make a long detour. It wouldn’t do for a party of scouts to be caught trespassing.”
To the doctor’s surprise, however, Harry vaulted the low fence, apparently oblivious of the sign which said, “Positively No Trespassing.” “Come ahead,” said he, looking back.
“Isn’t he the bold thing?” said Nelson Pierce.
A man came down through the grounds with a menacing aspect. “Don’t yez know how to read plain English?” he shouted.