Gilbert soon discovered his mistake. When a trail has brought you to a spot it is best to trust that trail to take you back again. Beacons, artificial beacons, are fickle things. Gilbert had much to learn. He had lost the trail and he soon found that he was following a phantom. One of the lights was no light at all, but a reflection in a puddle in the woods. The woods were still full of puddles; though the ground was firm it still bore these traces of its recent soaking. And the damage caused by the high wind was apparent on every hand, in fallen trees and broken limbs. There was a pungent odor to the drenched woods. Gilbert picked his way around these impediments of wetness and debris. The night was clear. There were a few stars but no moon. Doubtless, he thought, the reflection in the puddle was the reflection of a star. Presently he saw something black before him. In his maneuvers to keep to dry ground he had in fact already gone beyond it, and looked back at it, so to say. Now he could see that the reflection in the puddle was derived from a light on the further side of the black mass. Other little intervening puddles were touched with a faint, shimmering brightness. Gilbert approached the dark object and saw that it was a fallen tree. The wound in the earth caused by its torn-up roots formed a sort of cavern where the slenderer tentacles hung limp like tropical foliage. If there was a means of entrance to this dank little shelter it must be from the farther side. Even where Gilbert stood the atmosphere was redolent of the damp earth of this crazy little retreat. For retreat it certainly was, because there was a light in it. Gilbert could only see the reflection of the light but he knew whence that reflection was derived. He approached a little closer and was sure he heard voices. He paused, then advanced a little closer still. Doubtless this freakish little shelter left by the storm was occupied by a couple of hoboes, perhaps thieves. But Gilbert had played his card and lost. He had forsaken the trail for a light, and the light had not guided him to camp. He doubted if he could find his way to camp from here. You are to remember that Gilbert was a good scout, but a new one. He approached a little closer, and now he could distinctly hear a voice. Not the voice of a hobo, surely, for it was carolling a blithe song to the listening heavens. Gilbert bent his ear to listen: Oh, the life of a scout is free, is free; He's happy as happy can be, can be. He dresses so neat, With no shoes on his feet; The life of a scout is free! The life of a scout is bold, so bold; His adventures have never been told, been told. His legs they are bare, And he won't take a dare, The life of a scout is bold!