“I hope the fellow hasn’t come to grief somewhere in the woods,” he said, while a shiver of apprehension shot down his back. “But Herb has had so many hairbreadth escapes that I believe the animal has yet to be born which could get the better of him. And he can find his way anywhere without a compass. Every handful of moss on a trunk or stone, every turn of a woodland stream, every sun-ray which strikes him through the trees, every glimpse of the stars at night, has a meaning for him. He reads the forest like a book. No fear of his getting lost anyhow. Come, boys, I guess we’d better build up our fire, make things snug for the night, and turn in.”