Every now and then they wondered if it was going to clear and told some more Ford jokes. They watched a busy little glutton of a bird hopping about and pulling worms out of the ground and they wondered how he knew just where to plunge his bill in. They even went out to see if there were holes in the ground, but there were none. Then they told ghost stories.
At last, about three o’clock in the afternoon the rain ceased to fall, though the sky continued dull and threatening.
“Now’s our time to make the break if we’re going to,” said Townsend. “We can’t make Catskill to-day, no matter what. The roads will be horrible. What do you say? Shall we move on?”
“It’s nice here,” said Pee-wee.
“It is nice,” said Townsend.
“I tell you what let’s do,” said Pee-wee; “I’ll throw this stone at the bottle and I’ll try to hit it; see? If it hits we stay and if it misses we go, and I hope it hits, because I’d rather stay. We didn’t play mumbly-peg yet; we can do that.”
So it happened that their going partook of the same delightfully aimless character as the way in which they had spent the day in their cosy little tent. For Pee-wee missed the bottle. But just the same he didn’t leave it there, for a scout has as much respect for the woods as he has for the parlor in his home. Not a sign did they leave of their presence, except a little charred spot under a tree. They did not want to go, but now the die was cast and they would not go back on their resolution.
The patient little Ford was waiting along the roadside and really seemed glad to see them. Townsend toppled the seat cushions over to their proper positions, threw their camping paraphernalia in behind, then he and Pee-wee climbed into the front seat, and Townsend instantly got out again to crank the engine. “I dreamed I had a self-starter,” he said.
It required several crankings to get started, but at last they were off, the car looking quite clean after its bath.
“Good-by, old camp,” said Townsend as they rattled away.