They started off, and, after awhile, a hail from Tom showed that he had discovered the previous weapon. But then they all had to return to the common center and from there, after meeting, had to go back to the spot where the rifle lay.
“But are we any better off?” Nicky wondered. “Which way is ‘out’?”
“Let’s see if we can make the Indian women hear.”
“That won’t do. They ran before—they won’t come here.”
“I guess we’re lost,” said Tom, in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Isn’t there any woods’ sign in the tropics to show which is North, or some direction?” demanded Nicky. “Doesn’t moss grow mostly on one side of a tree?”
“In temperate climates I know some signs, but I don’t see any here,” Cliff acknowledged, spying about him carefully.
“Well,” Nicky declared, “we can shout, in turn, every half minute, and fire the rifle once in awhile.”
“We can’t waste shots,” objected Cliff. “We may need—” he broke off, not wishing them to picture the dangers he began to foresee.
But their minds were quick; however, each hid his growing uneasiness from his companions as well as he could.