"I'm getting hungry," said Horace: "isn't it about time for the dinner-bell to ring?"
"Pretty near," replied Peter, squinting his eyes and looking at the sky as if there was a noon-mark up there, and he was the boy to find it. "That bell will ring in fifteen minutes: you see if it don't."
But it did not, though it was high noon, certainly. Hours passed. Horace remembered they were to have had salt cod-fish and cream gravy for dinner. Aunt Madge had said so; also a roly-poly with foaming sauce. It must now be long ago since the sugar and butter were beaten together for that sauce. He wondered if there would be any pudding left. He was sure he should like it cold, and a glass of water with ice in it.
O, how many times he could have gone to the barrel which stood by the sink, and drunk such deep draughts of water, when he didn't care anything about it! But now he was so thirsty, and there was not so much as a teaspoonful of water to be found!
"I motion we go home," said Horace, for at least the tenth time.
"Well," replied Peter, sulkily, "ain't we striking a bee-line?"
"We've got turned round," said Horace: "Canada is over yonder, I know."
"Pshaw! no, it ain't, no such a thing."
But they were really going the wrong way. The village bell had rung at noon, as usual, but they were too far off to hear it. It was weary work winding in and out, in and out, among the trees and stumps. With torn clothes, bleeding hands, and tired feet, the poor boys pushed on.
"Of course we're right," said Peter, in a would-be brave tone: "don't you remember that stump?"