But every boy did enjoy it, even though the insects, both flying and crawling, persisted in making themselves unduly conspicuous.
Thunderbolt proved a most agreeable guide and companion. He related stories, told them secrets of woodcraft which even Tom admitted he had not heard before, and helped to drag the balsam boughs into the glade and arrange them in neat, smooth piles.
“He’s a crackerjack,” laughed Sam Randall. “After this, don’t let anybody talk to me about lazy Indians.”
“Thunderbolt certainly isn’t one,” said Tom, with strong emphasis.
When preparations for the night’s rest were finished the fire was sending a wide circle of dancing light over the darkening woods. And in this little oasis of light amidst a vast desert of gloom the boys sat, often conjecturing about Jed Warren’s strange disappearance.
“I’m going to turn in,” remarked Dave, finally.
“I think we’d better all do the same,” said Bob. “We want to make an early start for Fool’s Castle to-morrow morning.”
Thereupon the crowd unstrapped their blankets and betook themselves to the fragrant balsam boughs—that is, all except Sam Randall, whose duty it was to stand first watch.
“And don’t you dare to wake me up a minute before time, Sam,” warned Dave, laughingly.
So the lone sentinel began pacing to and fro. The occasional comments from the recumbent forms ceased, and the soft pat, pat of Sam Randall’s feet, the never-ceasing rustling of grass and leaves, and the noises made by the horses moving about were the sounds which reigned supreme.