"Here you can see the trail I've marked as the shortest cut to camp," he
finished, pointing to a dotted line that seemed to be almost straight.
"It runs exactly southwest, you notice, boys."

"But how are we going to always know what _is_ southwest?" asked
Bandy-legs, receiving the chart.

At that Toby gave a snort of disdain.

"W-w-what d'ye s'pose this is for, s-s-silly?" he demanded, dangling a
little nickel-plated object before the eyes of his companion.

"That's right, we're going to have the bully little compass along with us,"
declared the doubting one, looking considerably relieved; for truth to
tell, if Bandy-legs feared any one thing more than another, it was the
haunting idea of being lost in a great big wilderness, and meeting a slow
and dreadful death through starvation.

"And even if we should l-l-lose this useful t-t-trinket," continued Toby,
exultantly, "I'd know how to t-t-tell which was north, all right."

"Huh! why, of course, by the moss on the sides of the trees," observed
Bandy-legs. "Guess I heard Max tell that, all right. Never forget it,
either. But how the dickens is a feller to ever remember _which_ side
of the big trees this moss always grows on?"

"Stop and think," said Max, who had an idea that some day this information
might be useful to his chum; "the hard storms of winter generally come out
of the northwest, don't they?"