That foreboding increased as they pressed on. Each one now became depressingly sure that he was wandering in the woods "lak wit' eye shut"; without any knowledge of his bearings, or of how to retrace his steps to the log shanty flanked by the mountain of sawdust, whence he might be able to find his way back to the farm-clearing where he had encountered the musical woodchopper, frightened boy and dead raccoon. The boy scout was silently reproaching himself for having fallen short of the prudent standard inculcated by his scout training. Carried away by the novelty of these strange woods and his equally strange companions, he had lowered the foresail of prudence--just tramped along blindly with the others--taking no note of landmarks, nor leaving any trace behind him that would serve to guide him back along the course by which he had come. But, then, he had trusted to Leon's leadership; and the latter's boasted knowledge of the woods proved, as Coombsie had suspected, to consist of bluff as a chief ingredient! "I wish I had kept my eyes open and noticed things as I came along, or that I had thought of notching the trees at intervals with my penknife--blazing a trail--which we could have followed back," lamented the scout. "I guess we're only wandering round in a circle now; we're not hitting a logging-road or trail of any kind. Tck! puppie,"--emitting an inarticulate summons between his tongue and palate,--"let's see what's the matter with those forepaws of yours! Blood, is it? Have you scratched them?" He stooped to examine Blink's slim white forelegs. "_Gee whiz!_ it isn't blood--it's clay--red clay: we must be on the trail of Varney's Paintpot, fellows!" So they were! They presently found it, that red-ochre bed, lying in obscurity among the bushes, scrub oak, dwarf pine and cedar, together with tall ferns, that stood guard over it jealously, in a particularly dense portion of the woods. Once the clay had been vivid and valuable, with wonderful painting properties. Many an Indian had stained his arrow blood-red with it. Many a white man, an early settler, had painted the rude furniture of his home from that forest paintpot--then a moist tank of Nature's pigment. Later on it had been used too, as civilization progressed, and was claimed by the man whose name it bore. Now, it was for the most part caked and dried up, its coloring power weakened; yet there were still moist and vivid spots such as that in which Blink, with the dog's unerring instinct for scenting out the unusual, had smeared himself. And those spots the boys promptly turned into a rouge-pot. They painted their own faces and each other's, until more savage-looking red men these woods had never seen. They forbore from delaying to smear their bodies, as Nixon had suggested, for one word was now booming in each tired brain like a foghorn through a mist: "Lost! Lost! _Lost!_" And they could not quite escape from it in this new diversion.