several footprints leading to the left. "I'll take that," he concluded, as the match began to burn his fingers and was dropped.
On he went again, the trail now leading over some rough rocks overlooking a second valley covered with thick timber. On the opposite side of the trail was a cliff, and the footpath was not over two feet wide.
How it happened, Dick could never tell afterward, quite clearly. He slipped and stumbled, and like a flash began to roll down the incline leading to the valley. Over and over he went like a barrel, and then came a drop, through some brush into a hollow filled with dead leaves and moss. In a few seconds he had travelled several hundred feet.
Beyond a rude shaking up, he was not hurt in the least; and as soon as he could catch his breath he picked himself up and tried to climb out of the hollow. All was pitch dark around him.
"This is a pickle, truly," he groaned. "I might better have remained with Bob and Danny."
But now was no time "to cry over spilt milk," as the popular saying is. He must get back to the trail somehow.
But getting back was not so easy. On leaving the hollow he became turned around in the
