Besides, Johnny Green did not seem to care much whether the boy followed him or not. He had promised to guide him out of the wood, and if Roger didn't want to be taken home, what concern was it of Johnny Green's? Reasoning thus, the boy concluded it must be all right, and then he began to follow with swift steps, keeping up as well as he was able, with his silent leader. In what seemed to Roger to be a very short time, he and Johnny Green emerged from the deeper forest into a sort of clearing, where a number of trees had been cut down. Traversing this was a rough wagon road, used, it seemed, by the wood choppers. Johnny Green struck into this with a grunt of satisfaction at the easier going, and he increased his pace so that Roger, exhausted and wearied as he was, found it difficult to keep his guide in sight. Perhaps the Indian heard the boy breathing rather heavy because of the exertions, or he might have recalled that his legs were longer and tougher than his companion's. At any rate, Johnny Green slackened his pace, and Roger was glad of it. Half a mile of travel along the wood trail brought the two out into the main road, and Roger, feeling the hard-packed dirt under his feet, saw that he was on the same highway where he and Adrian had driven with the grapes. It seemed almost a week ago, though it was but a few hours. There was considerable light now, even though the clouds did darken the moon at times, and Roger could distinguish dimly the fields, fenced in and extending to right and left away from the road. "Tree mile now," grunted Johnny Green. It was the first time he had spoken since they started. "To where?" asked Roger. "Tree mile Bert Kimball," and the boy was glad to learn how near home he was. It was slightly down hill going now, and the walking was good, so both stepped out at a lively pace. The night was chilly, and the damp wind made Roger shiver, so he was glad of the vigorous exercise that kept his blood in circulation. It was lonesome too, even though Johnny Green was just ahead of him, and the boy listened, with a sort of dread, to the mournful hooting of the owls, the cheeping of the tree-toads and the chirping of the crickets. For some time the two kept on in silence. Then the Indian suddenly halted in the middle of the road. He bent his head as if to catch some sound in the distance. "Hark!" he cautioned, and held up his hand warningly. Roger stopped. Yes, there was some noise quite a way in front, but at first its character could not be distinguished. Then in a few moments it resolved into a sort of confused shouting. "What yo' name?" asked Johnny Green, turning quickly to the boy at his side. "Roger." "They callin' yo'," he announced. "Bert Kimball I tink" "Is it?" joyfully. "Yep. Listen." Faintly Roger heard a voice shouting. He could make out no words, however. It increased his respect for Johnny Green's attainments that the Indian could understand a name called from such a distance.