Another hour passed, the anxious watcher listening in vain for any signs which indicated their approach. The golden tinged clouds changed to purple. Then sombre gray stole on, darkening by degrees until night enveloped the scene.
"They must be lost," thought Dave, disconsolately; "it will be hard finding their way back through the woods, even by moonlight."
He paced up and down uneasily. When the moon appeared in view, it was impossible for him to stand the suspense any longer.
"I'll climb a tree and shout," he concluded. "Perhaps that may help them to find the camp. If not, I'll build a fire."
In spite of his stoutness and indolent ways, the poet laureate could be active and agile when the occasion demanded. Selecting a suitable tree near the edge of the woods, he shinnied up its trunk until the lowermost branch was reached. Then, amidst the thick foliage, he worked his way slowly aloft until a good position was secured.
Had Dave not been so worried, it is probable that the view alone would have repaid him for his labor. The long line of the river was broken at intervals by trees; ridges, hills and dense woods, in light and shadow, extended off in all directions, blending imperceptibly with the sky.
"Not a sign of a camp-fire," muttered the lad. "Goodness, gracious, what in the world is that? Why how—"
This disjointed exclamation was caused by a sound, which, without warning, broke the silence.
Clear and distinct, the rapid pulsation of a motor engine, working at full speed, came to his ears.
Dave Brandon had never been more astonished in his life. Peering through the branches, he looked eagerly in the direction of the river.