The flight slowed down to a cautious advance. So slow did they go that Don's tender foot scarcely impeded them. Tim would go out in front and come back, and then go off to the sides. He ranged about tirelessly. And always his whistle, low, soft, kept guiding.
There came a time when for a quarter of an hour the whistle did not sound. Don became alarmed. Which way to continue he did not know. In doubt he stopped. He heard a stirring off to his right, and quickly faced that way. Tim stole toward him.
"I think I heard something," he whispered.
They listened, but heard only forest noises.
"Careful," warned Tim, and slipped away once more.
Don watched him until he disappeared. Following, he made sure not to stray from the direction Tim had taken. He limped around trees, and tried to avoid places where there were deep leaves and dead branches, because leaves and branches made noise.
Suddenly a sound halted him abruptly—two low, short whistles—the signal of danger.
Tim came back with concern on his face. "They're over there, Don. Quick! this way."
They changed their course to the east again. After a while they halted. For a moment they heard nothing. Then, to the left, came unmistakably the faint sound of voice.
Again they changed their course. Each step now was made with caution. By and by, when they thought they were safe, they stood still and strained their ears.