"Who has the hatchet?" asked Bob.
"I have," replied Tom Clifton.
"Then we'll blaze a trail. It's mighty easy to get mixed up in a big wood like this."
"Somers, the woodsman—Bill Agnew's star pupil," laughed Nat.
"Nothing like being on the safe side," said Bob. "Here goes number one."
"Crack! Smack! Hits it like a little man," grinned John Hackett. "Just look at the chips a-flying."
"We're the brigands of the woods," sang Nat.
"And live in a cave by the running brook."
Bob continued to cut the notches at intervals, then handed the hatchet to Nat. The latter certainly made noise enough in the execution of his task. Nearly always, he lagged back and came running after the other boys, with a broad grin on his face.
The afternoon passed quickly, and the sun was well over toward the west when Bob Somers, not wishing to alarm the poet laureate by a too prolonged absence, said: