“Yes, and easy to do, seeing’s we have no bugle and no boat,” said Frank. “Me for bed.”
They now turned in from the road, and followed the path, each one counting his steps. But, as the path was down-hill, and they had counted first when going up-hill, everybody was still many paces shy when Lou, who was leading with the lantern, suddenly spied the handkerchief, still tied to a bush. They turned into the underbrush, and after considerable stumbling in the dark, amid the undergrowth and the gigantic hemlock trunks, the lantern light fell on a shimmer of white—one of the shirts hung up to dry—and they found their camp. It wasn’t five minutes later when the camp was once more dark and silent.
CHAPTER VIII
On the Forehead of the Old Man of the Mountain
The camp next morning was still asleep at daybreak, and for the first time, almost, in the history of the Southmead Scouts Art was not the first to wake. He and Peanut were both asleep when the rest sat up and rubbed their eyes, and it was not till Rob rattled a pan and Lou began to chop wood that the two boys aroused.
“Because you’re heroes is no reason you should be lazy,” Rob laughed.
Peanut propped himself up on his elbow, and regarded the scene. The sun had not yet risen high enough to look in over the northern shoulders of Lafayette, and it was still dim among the great hemlocks. Some forest birds were singing sweetly, a hermit thrush far off sounding like a fairy clarion. The brook could be heard running close by. The woods smelled fresh and fragrant.
“I don’t believe I’ll get up at all,” Peanut announced. “Rather like it here. Gee, but I slept hard last night! Bet I made a dent in the ground.”
“Won’t get up at all, eh?” Rob remarked, setting down the coffee-pot. “We need more wood. Out with you!”
He took hold of Peanut’s blanket, and rolled the occupant out upon the bare ground.