“Where are we going to stop, Thunderbolt?” asked Dave, when it came time to look for another camping ground.
The young Indian pointed to a patch of woods in the distance.
“Good place,” he announced. “Water. White boys much pleased. Thunderbolt know all good places.”
“Well, there’s one lucky thing,” mused Larry to himself. “As far as I can make out, this jaunt has taken me in just the right direction. I wonder if the fellows will be mad? But what in thunder do I care if they are?”
As their guide had said the timber seemed to be a most excellent place for a camp. There were plenty of fragrant balsam boughs for couches, all the fire-wood necessary, and a tiny creeklet flowing through the center.
“Simply jim dandy!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Everything we need—except ice-cream sodas. How about it, little ‘Fear-not’?”
Larry, feeling that his tribulations were almost over, grinned.
“It’s perfectly lovely, Tom,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of an insect bit me on the cheek just now, but I’ll bet they have an enthusiastic reception committee waiting to receive us.”
“Don’t forget I carry with me all sorts of medical stuff,” said Tom.
“For instance?”