No answer.
“We’ll have to write our message in bark chips, I guess.” Billy selected one large smooth piece, placing it directly beside the path, with another small round piece on top.
“What does that say?”
“This is the trail,” Billy answered. “And this means ‘Go to the right,’” he continued, making a similar sign except that he put the small piece at the right of the larger one, and scratched a rough “B” in the soft forest debris.
A drizzling rain had begun, and the summer forest was dark and very dreary to the plains-bred boy. “Golly! I’m glad I’m not alone. I’d be dippy in an hour.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you can’t tell it in words. It’s like hearing and feeling things in the dark; you could swear they were there just where they could touch you; but light a match and you find every one of ’em on the hike.”
“Yes, I know the feeling. You almost think these ferns will rise and strangle you. In California the forests are more open—” He stopped suddenly. “Here’s a blaze!” He pushed away the ferns that almost concealed a square cut in the bark of a tree, in the centre of the bared space was a pencilled “S.” “These ferns have done a good job of growing since Pop Streeter hid the flag two weeks ago. But it’s his mark all right. No wonder the other boys missed it.”
They pressed on, not minding the rain now that the goal seemed near; Billy’s enthusiasm warmed the other boy.
“It’s funny, ain’t it, how a fool bit of cloth can make a fellow work? When we get it, it’s worth nothing.”