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Garst had passed into dreamland, where men revel in fragmentary memories and pell-mell visions. If Cyrus's dreams were ruffled after the morning's excitement, those of his comrades were a perfect chaos. A slight wind hummed wordless songs through the tasselled tops of the pine-trees about the camp. The music was tender and drowsy as a mother's lullaby.
Dol Farrar, as he finished his jerky sentences, pointed to an eminence which was two or three hundred yards from where they stood, and a like distance from the wall of forest. "Well! It's about time we struck something at last," grumbled Garst. "Catch me ever coming on a water pilgrimage again! I'll let Herb fill his own kettle in future. Now, I believe that fellow could smell a spring."
To begin, then, with the "boss" of the party, Cyrus Garst, the writer would say that he is a student of Harvard University, and a brainy, energetic, robust son of America.
Moccasins aren't much use to protect the feet from roots and sharp stones, if you happen to strike a bad place in forest travelling, unless you have taken the precaution to put double soles in them; didn't you know that? Now, Cyrus Garst," turning to the student, "you're all going to camp with us to-night. This lad can't tramp any more. As a doctor I forbid it."
"Well, they're not in eating order yet, and won't be till next month," answered Garst. "Come, you've got to let this one go, Uncle Eb, to please me." Cyrus considered for a minute, then decided that on the coon's behalf he might safely accept the compromise. "Let's get into our clothes, fellows!" he cried to Neal and Dol. "Now we're going to have some fair fun!
It required considerable experience and unending watchfulness to follow these "blazes"; but young Garst seemed to have the instinct of a true woodsman, and went ahead unfalteringly, if vigilantly, while Neal followed closely in his tracks. After rather a lengthy trudge, they reached a point where the ground sloped gently upward into a low bluff.
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