Camp and Trail - A Story of the Maine Woods by Isabel Hornibrook
page 69 of 263 (26%)
page 69 of 263 (26%)
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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. |
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