The motors had ceased going by now, and the road was empty. They very soon came to a good brook, and a few paces off the road put them into the seclusion of the woods. Here they camped, and had their supper. The day had been a comparatively light one—four miles down Moosilauke, six through Lost River and to North Woodstock, and six to camp—sixteen in all, mostly down-hill.
"And don't forget the two miles at lunch to the store and back for our packs," said Frank.
"An even eighteen, then," said Rob. "Gee, that's not very good."
"Women—they're to blame for everything, ain't they, Art?" said Peanut.
Art got up and made for his tormentor, but Peanut was too quick for him. He was away into the rough, dark woods, and Art gave up the chase. It wasn't long after, however, in spite of the fact that they had walked only eighteen miles, when the camp was asleep.
