“Here’s the trail Obed told us about,” he observed, pointing down at his feet as though he had been looking about him while recuperating after that three mile carry.  “And I guess we might as well be going on.  For one I’m beginning to feel quite curious to see that lodge of his under the pines and hemlocks, as well as learn what he is doing with his fox farm.”

Bandy-legs opened his mouth, and then considered it better not to voice the question he had on the tip of his tongue, for he shut his jaws tight together again, and did not speak; Max noticing this, it caused him to smile in quiet satisfaction.  That was a very disagreeable habit of Bandy-legs, always questioning things, and wanting double proof before he would put the stamp of his approval on them; and Max kept hoping that in the process of time it could be broken up.

It was not difficult to follow the trail, even though at times this proved to be rather faint and undecided; at least it turned out to be an easy task with the four chums, simply because they were accustomed to such things.  A greenhorn might have lost the track many times, and made a none.  He had in mind the story told by Obed concerning the presence in the vicinity of another party, and his suspicions concerning their base intentions.  Apparently Max must have believed what the woods boy said, even though he could see no sign of a camp that morning.

“I’ve got an idea the seven birches are just over yonder, boys!” announced Steve, who possessed good eyesight.  “Twice now I’ve glimpsed something white among the thickets of undergrowth; and you can see that the creek is beginning to swing around so as to lead us in that direction.”

“G-g-guess you’re about r-r-right, Steve!” declared Toby Jucklin, instantly; “to t-t-tell you the t-t-truth, I’ve been squinting that same p-p-patch of white myself q-q-quite some little time now.”

It turned out to be just as Steve had prophesied.  They soon discovered a bunch of birches growing from the stump of a larger tree that had long ago fallen under the ax of a woodsman.

“There are seven, all right—­count ’em!” announced Steve with a vein of exultation in his voice, just as though by right of discovery those birches really belonged to him.

“Let’s call a little rest before we tackle the last round,” begged Bandy-legs, as they arrived alongside the landmark mentioned by Obed; and without waiting for the others to assent he dropped his pack, and threw himself down on an especially inviting bit of moss, heaving a great sigh of relief; for be it known, Bandy-legs was not especially “mountain out of a mole-hill,” as Steve aptly put it, when referring to the matter.

Soon they were casting eager glances ahead, under the impression that they must certainly be drawing near the object of their search.  Even Bandy-legs had by now apparently arrived at the belief that Obed was “straight,” and that he really did have some sort of home in this secluded region.  The directions had turned out to be exact, from the three-mile tramp along the stream and the “seven birches, count ’em”; to the winding trail that led from that point deeper into the woods.