Still the shadow of that gray cairn stalked him as well as the others. Even Leon was subdued by it. His manner had lost the last trace of its shallow cocksureness. The mantle of bluff had melted from him, leaving him a distracted, temper-tried boy like his three companions. "I know that the cave called the Bear's Den is not quite a mile from Bishop's grave, but I haven't the least idea of how to go about reaching it," he admitted. "A logging-road passes the cave; that might lead us somewhere. I wish we could strike a stream." "So do I! My mouth is dry as dust; I'm parched with thirst." Nixon, as he spoke, stooped, picked up a round pebble, inserted it between his dry palate and tongue and began sucking on it, as on a gum-drop. "What on earth are you doing that for?" questioned Leon sharply; the nerves in his tired body were now jangling like an instrument out of tune; together with his three companions he was cross as a thorn--ready to quarrel with his own shadow. "'What am I doing it for?' Why! to start the saliva," quavered the scout, sucking hard; "to prevent me from feeling the thirst so much." "_Blamed_ rubbish!" Starrie Chase snorted. "As if sucking a stone like a baby would do you any good!" "Everything is 'rubbish,' except what you know yourself; and _that's_ next to nothing!" Nixon was now equally cross. "You don't know half as much about the woods as your dog does. If it hadn't been for you, we'd have been out of this place long ago!" "Oh! you think you're It, because you're a boy scout, but I think the opposite!" "Shut up! Don't give me any of your 'jaw'!" But there was a sudden, queer contortion of the scout's face on the last word. Abruptly he stalked on, humming to himself--a curious-looking being, with his painted face and dazed eyes under the broad-brimmed hat. "What's that you're singing, Nix?" Coombsie was catching at a straw to divert thought from Bishop's grave. "Oh! go on, let's hear it. Sounds lively!" urged Leon, whose temper had sunk beneath the realization of their plight, a quenched flash. The scout sidetracked his pebble between right cheek and gums and began to sing with what cheerfulness he could muster, as much for his own encouragement as that of his companions, a patrol song, the gift of a poet to the boy scouts of the world:-- "Look out when your temper goes At the end of a losing game; And your boots are too tight for your toes, And you answer and argue and blame! It's the hardest part of the law, But it's got to be learned by the scout, For whining and shirking and 'jaw,' All patrols look out! These are our regulations, There's just one law for the scout, And the first and the last, and the present and the past, And the future and the perfect is look out!" Before Nixon had finished the chorus his three companions were shouting it with him as a spur to their jaded spirits.