The fire, in spite of its leisurely progress, had extended over perhaps two acres, nearly all of which would class as swamp land, though in many places it was now as dry as any hill. Still, even where the mire had hardened there were hummocks which made walking difficult, to say nothing of the thick undergrowth on which the flames had fed. Anybody, strolling through the woods, would be more likely to make a detour about the hollow than to tramp across it.
“Oh, in a case like this you can’t find out half the time what caused the trouble,” growled Poke. “Come on! Let’s get to the feed.”
“Hope it isn’t far to camp,” said the Trojan.
“Huh! No need to hope!” snapped the Shark.
“Meaning we’ve lost our way?”
“Meaning camp’s just ahead of us. Where are your eyes, anyway?”
“Cheer up, Shark! Don’t be a grouch,” counseled Poke.
The Shark gave a characteristic shrug. “It ought to grouch anybody to see how you fellows don’t figure out things. Not that you ever will, though! But if only you’d kept your wits working, you’d know the tent can’t be an eighth of a mile from here.”
“Confound it! can’t you be exact?” Poke teased, with a wink at the others. “Talking about things that grouch, what’s worse than a fellow who deals in eighths of a mile, when he ought to say twelve hundred and thirty-four ten-thousandths, plus? You vex me, Shark.”
“You—you——” snorted the Shark; then words failed him, and he set off at a round pace.