This time the sound was even nearer.
"We can't go back deeper into the woods," Tim argued breathlessly. "Your ankle won't stand it. We've got to get out. We can't go to our right—there's the ravine and the underbrush. If we keep going ahead they'll overtake us. If we try to get off to the left, we're sure to cross them on an angle."
"Never mind me," Don urged. "Make a dash for it."
Tim shook his head stubbornly. "Wouldn't it be fine for a scout to leave his patrol leader in the lurch? Maybe we'll think of something. Come on; no use of standing here."
They wormed their way forward. They began to meet patches of thick brush.
All at once Tim gave a suppressed cry.
"Look at that brush, Don. If we can get them off on a false scent—Where are they?"
The sound was still off to the left.
"Give me your haversack." Tim shed his own. "Now your canteen. Now over there. Lie behind that brush. Quick."
Don hobbled over to the dense growth. Watching, he saw Tim go off a short distance and drop a haversack; going on, he dropped a canteen and disappeared.
Don expected him to come back the way he had gone. Instead, Tim made a wide swing and approached the brush from the rear. He stretched off on his stomach alongside the patrol leader.