ote back with us it might be in the way."

"Just as you say, Max," Bandy-legs continued, nodding to himself in a
wise way, as though he had determined on a certain course for himself,
which he did not consider it necessary to explain to all the rest.

When the two left camp Steve was climbing a tree with the avowed
intention of closely examining the limb from which the smoked meat had
been hung.

"A cat, big or little, has got _claws_," he remarked, as if to explain
his actions; "and I guess it might leave some scratches on the bark that
would help explain things. Anyhow no harm done trying to see how far my
theory will go. Good luck, fellows, and don't you get lost now."

"No danger of that when Max is along," replied Bandy-legs, confidently,
as he and his chum strode away.

They knew the location of the farm, because several times that morning
there had been borne to their ears the distant barking of a watchdog;
and Max had taken special pains to locate the direction from which the
sound came. All they would have to do was to keep heading straight into
the west until they struck the cleared ground, when the rest would be
easy enough.

"The boys have promised to keep the fire going while we're gone," Max
told his comrade, as they walked along in company, following what seemed
to be a fair trail that led in the right direction, "and to feed it with
green wood pretty much all the time."

"Green wood!" echoed Bandy-legs, looking puzzled.

"So as to make more of a black smoke, which will be of considerable help
to us in finding our way back to camp," Max informed him.

"Ok, yes, I see," Bandy-legs went on, shooting a look full of admiration
toward his companion; "it certainly does take you to think up the best
things ever. Now, that wouldn't have occurred to me in a thousand
years."

"This walking isn't so bad after all, is it?" asked Max, quick to change
the subject when he saw signs of the other breaking out in praise of his
woodcraft.

"That's right," his chum admitted; "only I hope we don't meet up with
anything that's going to make us sorry we didn't fetch a gun along."

"Not much chance of that," Max argued.

"But then you know there _is_ something loose in this neck of the woods
that's got us guessing. What it can be beats my time. A tiger'd most
likely pounced on poor old Ebenezer, and paid mighty little attention to
our smoked meat; he'd want the fresh stuff right off the reel."

Bandy-legs making