“It’s worth a million,” he thought, “just to be a Boy Scout, and to be alive on a day like this.”
Dick was no poet, but if he had been, he could have written an ode to the wonderful, mystic forest. The narrow path he traversed was closely hemmed in by giant trees, covered with moss and, at times, he could see the glistening of a waxy bunch of mistletoe high up on some old oak.
Finally his mind came around to all the exciting events of the last few days, and he became sober.
When would the miscreants be brought to book? It did not seem possible that they could long remain at large, but then the North Woods are very extensive, and offer thousands of hiding places to experienced woodsmen like the discharged lumberjacks.
At this thought his heart sank, but Dick was not one to worry much about things he could not help, nor to cross a bridge until he came to it.
So he dismissed all forebodings from his mind and set up a shrill whistle that caused the forest to echo and the squirrels to sit up in front of the entrances to their homes and chatter angrily.
He looked upward toward the sun, which he could at times glimpse through the thick foliage, and, judging from its position that it must be growing late, hurried his footsteps. He was soon in sight of the camp, but could see no sign of life about it. As he drew nearer the rough log houses, he shouted, “Hello, there! Hello! Hello!”
“Hello, yourself!” responded a voice from the cook’s house, and a moment later the tangled red head belonging to the owner of the voice was stuck out of the doorway.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Dick?” he continued in a more friendly voice, as he recognized the Assistant Scout-Master. “Well, what can I do you for?”
Dick smiled at this characteristic question, and replied, “Why, I wanted to see the foreman, Mr. Flannigan. Where is he, do you know?”