"Where--what--where--is--it--anyway?" he panted. He did not know which direction was north or south or east or west. He only knew that a dagger was sticking in his side and that he could not rise.... Yes, he could. He pulled himself together, rested a moment on his knees, staggered to his feet and looked around. "Where--where--th--the dickens--is north?" He turned and looked around. He looked around the other way. Nothing but desolation and darkness. He thought of what Tom had told him and, closing his eyes, opened them suddenly. The mountain must have been too near to show in outline now; it had probably melted into the general landscape. There was just an even, solid blackness all about him. The wind moaned, and somewhere, high and far off, he heard the screech of an eagle. But at least the rain did not assail him as it had done. This, however, was small comfort. He had lost, _failed_, and he knew it. In pitiable despair, in the anguish of defeat, he looked about him again in every direction, as if to beseech the angry night to give him back his one little beacon, and let him only save those people if he died for it. But there was no light anywhere. It had gone out. CHAPTER VIII ALMOST Well, he would not go back. They should find him right there, his body marking the very last foot he had been able to go. He would die as those brother scouts of his would have to die. He would not go back. That good rule of the scouts to stop and think was not in Hervey's line. But he would do the next best thing--a thing very characteristic of Hervey Willetts. He would take a chance and start running. Yes, that would be better. There would be just one chance in four of his going in the right direction. But he had taken bigger chances than that before. Anyway, the rain was ceasing. And he soon overcame the sentimental notion of just lying there. The momentary rest had restored some measure of his strength. The aching in his side was not so acute. The land was not so muddy where he was and he took off his jacket and washed some of the heavy mud from his shoes. Then he started off pell-mell. Who shall say what good angel prompted him to look behind? Perhaps it was the little god Billikins of whom you are to know more in these pages. But look behind Hervey Willetts did. And there in the distance, very tiny but very clear, was a spark bobbing in the darkness. He paused and watched it over his shoulder. It moved along slowly, very slowly. It disappeared. Then appeared again. And now it moved a little faster. A little faster still. Now it moved along at an even, steady rate. The long, hard pull up Cheery Hill was over, and the horses were jogging along the road. Oh, how well Hervey knew that lantern which hung under the rear step of the clumsy, lumbering old bus. _Then it had not passed._