Next morning the mighty Nimrods breakfasted, in imagination, on their deer; and then struck out into the forest, resolved to unearth the rogue who had gulled poor Will.

But soon the fickle hunters concluded to secure the services of an officer of the law, and on reaching the edge of the forest they were directed where to find such a person.

They came up with this man in his orchard, but whether he was gathering apples or only eating them they could not guess. He listened patiently to the story of their wrongs (they did not give it exactly as it happened, but they did not falsify it at all), and then told them that they might go on with their hunt and not trouble their heads about it further, for he would soon overhaul the villain.

The hunters lingered irresolutely, but the man seemed to know his own business best, and with a peremptory “good day” he scrambled into a patriarchal apple-tree, and fell to shaking down his apples so recklessly and disrespectfully that they thought it prudent to withdraw.

“I will catch the rascal myself, after all,” Will declared.

“Yes, let us penetrate far into this old forest,” Marmaduke added. “If we explore its length and breadth, perhaps we shall find some trace of our game.”

“Perhaps, if we set to work in earnest, we shall be more successful hunting for man than we have been for beast,” the young man who used to be called the Sage observed.

With that the hunters struck out boldly.

“Boys,” said Charles, (they still used the familiar appellation of former years,) “did any of you ever read a romance in which a scout figured as the hero, or in which the hero sometimes played the part of a scout, or spy?”

[363]

“I have,” said two or three.

“Well, how did they go about it?” Charles asked.

“Oh,” said Stephen, who took it upon himself to answer, “they always wore leather breeches, moccasins, and shot-belts; they always struck the trail at once, smoked the chiefs’ peace-pipe, and slew the common Indians; they always followed their trade alone,—or if they had a mate, both went alone,—and chewed home-made tobacco with the few tusks still left them; they always tomahawked deserters, other people’s spies, or scouts, and wild-cats; and finally, they always found out secrets that got them into trouble, but lived to receive a gold snuff-box on the occasion of the hero’s wedding. What they did with the gold snuff-box I don’t know; for there the romancer, being too much exhausted to write ‘The End,’ which has six letters, always wrote ‘Finis,’ which has only five.”

“Thank you, Steve,” said Charles. “But according to that, it is hopeless for us to act the orthodox spy, so we shall have to go on blindly and take our chances.”

And they did go on blindly—so blindly, that five hours later, when hunger began to show her hand, they perceived that they were lost! Lost in a vast forest, which, for all they knew, was infested with robbers!

“It is strange that we have not travelled in a circle,” George mused. “You all know, of course, that when a man loses his way, it is a fundamental principle that he should travel in a circle.”

“Well, if we keep on diligently, probably we shall have the pleasure of finding that we are travelling in a circle,” Charles commented.

“I tell you what it is, boys;” Steve said, making use of an expression that had left his lips at least once daily since his twelfth year; “I tell you what it is, boys; now that we are lost, let us make the most of it. I have had a hankering to get lost ever since I cried myself to sleep over the mournful tale of the ‘Babes in the Woods;’ and now I am going to enjoy the novel sensation of being lost! Hurrah!”

And in the exuberance of his spirits careless Steve[364] plucked off his hat and flung it aloft so adroitly that it caught in a tree and dangled there tantalizingly, quite out of his reach. However, a ball from Charles’s rifle induced it to fall.

“That is the most useful thing I have shot, Steve,” he confessed dejectedly; “and if it had been a thing of life, I should have terminated that life,” pointing to a ghastly hole in the crown of the hat.

“Don’t be so much moved, Steve,” George observed; “for you may fare worse than even the ‘Babes in the Woods.’ Poor little creatures, they died happy, at least.”

“Oh,” said Marmaduke, also delighted to think he was actually lost, “we can live very well for a few days in this magnificent old forest. We can, of course, procure all the animal food we shall need, together with roots, herbs, and berries—no, it’s too late for berries. A man can live on fish, fruit, and roots, without injury to his system; and in a few days we shall find our way out, or else be rescued by others.”

“Very good,” said Will; “but where are we to catch the fishes?”

“Oh,” Steve said promptly, “Marmaduke bases his argument on the supposition that whenever a hunter gets lost, he and a ‘pure stream,’ stocked with fish, presently fall into each other’s arms.”

“Speaking of rescue,” said Charles, “many a poor lost hunter is rescued from his sufferings by wild beasts that devour him.”

“It is sheer nonsense to talk of becoming lost here,” Will declared dogmatically, “because this forest is not extensive enough for any sensible man to remain lost in it for any great length of time. I see daylight to the north, now; though where we are is more, I must acknowledge, than I can tell.”

“My compass persists that that light comes from the west,” Stephen soon said; “but of course, Will, you are too sensible a man to get lost or make such a mistake, therefore my compass has become demoralized.”

Will took out his compass, looked at it very hard, and then pocketed it with a sigh.

[365]

The hunters moved towards the light, and soon found themselves in a clearing of some extent. A strong log-hut stood in the centre of this clearing, and divers emblems of civilization and occupation were strewed around it. What seemed most strange, to even the most inattentive of the hunters, was certain implements which are seldom seen in the midst of a forest. These were such implements as are used in the construction of railroads.

“Hello!” yelled Steve, glancing at all these implements, “hello! we have stumbled on a new railroad, have we? Well, we ought to be able to find our way out now pretty easily; for railroads don’t spring up in wildernesses.”

“Yes, we are just within the woods; outside we shall find the railroad and civilization,” Will returned. “Well, I don’t see much romance in getting lost for an hour or so.”

“Hello, what is this?” Steve cried suddenly. “Here is a neat little tube, something like a cartridge. Now, is it a cartridge?”

“Be careful, Steve,” Will cautioned. “There is no knowing what dangerous things may be lying about here. I remember, when I was a pretty little boy, my father told me horrible stories about gun-cotton. He made it out to be a frightful explosive, in order to deter me from meddling with things strange to me. Now, perhaps—”

But at this point the prudent one was interrupted by a shout of laughter from Charles. “Will,” he said, “what do you mean by ‘a pretty little boy?’ Do you mean, when you were a handsome, though diminutive, urchin, or simply, when you were rather small?”

George now drew on his knowledge, and prepared to enlighten them. “Gun-cotton, boys,” he said, “is a composition which con—”

Doubtless George would have given a very lucid explanation of the nature and virtues of gun-cotton; but at this point, Steve, who still held the little “tube,” said impatiently, “Now, what do I care about gun-cotton? There is no cotton here, and as for a gun—go to grass! This tube can be made to fit the blunt end of my pencil, very neatly; and what is more, it shall be put there.”

[366]

“Why, Steve, I didn’t give you credit for being so sensible,” Henry observed. “I didn’t believe you were studious enough to carry a pencil.”

“Oh,” Charles ingeniously replied, “Steve doesn’t carry a pencil for studious purposes; I doubt whether he ever takes notes; but whenever he finds a clean and smooth surface,—such as a new shingle or a solid fence built of newly planed boards,—he draws his name, or a mythological figure, or the Phantom Ship, on it, with dazzling flourishes.”

“Draws his name, eh?” asked Henry.

“Exactly.”

“Well,” sighed Steve, “it is one of the few things I can do well.”

With that he took out his penknife.