"Are you sure this is the right mountain?" Hervey asked. "They all look
alike when you get close to them."
"Yop," said Tom; "what do you think of it?"
"Oh, I'm not particular about mountains," Hervey said. "They all look
alike to me."
Following the road, they watched the bordering woods on the mountainside
carefully for any sign of a trail. Several times they clambered up into
the thicket supposing some tiny clearing or sparse area to be the
beginning of the winding way they sought.
Hervey was thoroughly aroused now and serious. Once they picked their
way up into the woods for perhaps a dozen yards, only to find themselves
in a jungle with no sign of trail. Tom returned down out of these blind
alleys, his hands scratched, his clothing torn, and resumed his way
along the road doggedly, saying little. He knew it was somewhere and he
was going to find it.
Suddenly he paused by a certain willow tree, looking at it curiously.
"What is it?" Hervey asked excitedly.
"Looks as if a jack-knife had been at work around here, huh? Somebody's
been making a willow whistle. Look at this."
Tom held up a little tube of moist willow bark, at the same time kicking
some shavings at his feet. "Looks as if they passed this point,
anyway," he said. "Ever make one of those willow whistles? I've made
dozens of them for tenderfeet. If you make them the right way, they make
a dickens of a loud noise."
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE CLIMB
At last they found the trail.
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