Chapter XII
THE LETTUCE BOX
“The best thing to do,” said Poor Cecco next morning, when they had bidden the Woodchucks good-bye and were walking down the hill, “is to go home. This life of adventure is all very well, but we have been away for a long time, and by now every one will be wondering what has become of us.”
“Home!” shouted Bulka. “Hurray! Let’s go home!” And he turned a somersault at once.
It was all very well to say, but how would they get there? It wasn’t so easy. For one thing, no one had the faintest idea, now, in which direction home lay. It might be East, West, North or South, but after taking so many turns and coming through so many adventures even Poor Cecco had lost his sense of direction completely. As for Bulka, he had never even troubled his head about anything of the kind.
Poor Cecco thought and thought, and in the end he took a piece of stick, and finding a smooth bit of earth began to trace on it, as well as he could remember, the way they had come. It looked a queer sort of map when he had done, with stones and scraps of twig stuck in here and
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