"Gee, it's time to make camp!" cried Peanut. "Here's a good, soft place, on this moss."
He pointed to a level spot on the summit. Mr. Rogers shook his head.
"Nix!" he said. "We'd be chilled through before morning. Which way is the wind?"
Art picked up a piece of dry grass and tossed it into the air. It drifted toward the southeast.
"Northwest," he said.
"All right. We'll go down into the spruces to leeward, and keep out of it."
The boys soon found a sheltered level space some fifty feet below the peak, and began to clear out a sort of nest in the tough spruce.
"Gosh, I never saw anything so tough as these young spruces," said Frank.
Lou had been examining one he had cut down. "They're not young," he answered. "That's the funny part of it. This one I've cut is only four inches through, but it's years old. I've counted at least forty-five rings. Guess they are dwarfed by the storms up here, like Japanese trees, aren't they, Mr. Rogers?"
The Scout Master nodded. "I've seen 'em only three or four feet high, when they were so thick together, and so tough, that you could literally walk on top of 'em without going through to the ground."
Peanut dropped his hatchet and slipped down over
