“If the blooming old thing’d only keep away till we’d bagged our game, I wouldn’t say a single thing,” he muttered, and then fell silent while following the trail.
Fortunately there had not been enough snow to hinder them from seeing the plain tracks of the moose. So heavy an animal was bound to sink in and leave a trail that even a greenhorn could follow fairly well.
“What time is it, Bluff?” asked Jerry, upon seeing the other snatch a look at the little gun-metal watch he carried.
“Close on three,” he was informed.
“And we’ve been walking since noon, nearly,” Jerry continued. “We must have gone miles and miles.”
Bluff did not answer. He hoped in that way to convince his talkative chum that while there was a time for everything, a tracking expedition, with a wary old bull moose ahead, was not the occasion for carrying on a general conversation.
Occasionally flakes of snow would drift down. Jerry always observed their coming with fresh apprehension, and was correspondingly relieved when they stopped. It was as if the weather were holding off, though when the storm did break it was apt to prove all the more fierce on account of the delay.
Bluff had ceased examining his compass now. In fact, he was caring precious little whether they found themselves lost or not. Looking ahead, a night in the Big Woods did not appall him; being fond of adventure, Bluff might even welcome the experience for a change.
Being thrown on their own resources would bring out their ability to take care of themselves. Bluff was vain enough to want to show Frank he could be trusted when off in the timber, and get out of any tangle that might envelop them.
Perhaps when Jerry happened to feel the little package of food thrust into one of his pockets by thoughtful Frank, he no longer had that inclination to laugh. Knowledge that they carried their supper along with them was growing more and more inspiring the farther they walked.