Step was exultant. “What did I tell you! Six miles to the good!”
“But what’s the direction?” demanded Sam.
“Why, straight ahead,” said Step, and pointed down the slope.
“How do you know?”
“Must be.”
“I don’t see why.”
Poke took a hand. “Look here, Shark! Can’t you figure out the course?”
The Shark frowned. “You never heard of the word ‘exact,’ did you? You want me to treat a wiggling road like two straight lines meeting at a right angle. But if you’ve got to assume everything, you might as well pile it on. So, if you assume that there is a right angled, isosceles triangle—two sides equal, understand?—then each of the acute angles will be of forty-five degrees. And so, to travel to the hypothenuse, you’d steer forty-five degrees from the line of the road.”
“Oh, sure!” said Step hastily. “Sure you would! But I haven’t a compass, or dividers, or—or whatever it is you use.”
“Got a watch, haven’t you?” snorted the Shark. “Well, use that! Fifteen minutes on the dial equals ninety degrees. Forty-five degrees is the same as seven minutes, thirty seconds. There’s your angle for you. Hang it! don’t you fellows know anything?”