or farther up the mountain. But what a blockhead I am! Why on earth
didn't I do that before I started on this wretched trail?"

But alas! as this was Dol Farrar's first adventure in American woods, it
had not occurred to him to do the right thing at the right time. Had he
fired a round of signal shots when first he lost the line of spotted
trees, he would probably have been heard at his camp, and would have
been spared the worst scare he ever had in his life. The negligence was
scarcely his fault, however; for Cyrus Garst, who had never before
undertaken the responsibility of entertaining a pair of inexperienced
boys in woodland quarters, had not, at this early stage of the trip,
arranged with his comrades to fire a certain number of shots to signify
"Help wanted!" if one of them should stray, or otherwise get into
trouble. The idea now cropped up in Dol's perplexed mind, through a
confused recollection of tales about forest misadventures which Uncle Eb
had told him by the cheery camp-fire.

So he loaded the old shot-gun. It belched forth fire and smoke into
space. And the thunder of his shot went rolling off in a reverberating
din among the mountain echoes, until a hundred tongues repeated his
appeal for help. Again he loaded rapidly and fired. And yet again, with
nervous, eager fingers. So on, till he had let off half a dozen shots in
quick succession.

Then he waited, listening as if every pulse in his body had suddenly
become an ear.

But when the last growling echo had died away, not a sound broke the
almost absolute silence on the mountain-side. Evidently not a human soul
was near enough to hear or understand his signals of distress.