“What direction from the arrow would the letter be?”
“What do you think?”
“The way the arrow points?”
“Right—What have you found?” Billy crossed a small open spot to where the other boy was bending over two crossed sticks at the foot of a tree. “Good! You’re not blind as you might be. That’s luck—finding that. We’re on the wrong lead.”
“How do you know? Two sticks might fall that way.”
“But look here! See that crooked line made of pieces of bark?”
“Yes, but that’s nothing—Why, it’s the letter ‘S.’”
“That means Mr. Streeter. Around here somewhere we’ll find more signs.”
They hunted carefully along, leaving their own records on tree or ground. Billy explained the many ways of marking the way,—smokes, wigwagging, shaking the blanket, the semaphore code, all of which are practically useless in the dense forest, where trees reach higher than could any smoke that would be safe.
“I’ve got it!” Billy shouted presently, and blew three blasts on his whistle three times repeated, to herald the finding of an arrow.