They dipped into the canon of the creek and out again through the yellow
pines of the other side. They skirted the edge of the ancient clearing
for the almost prehistoric mill that had supplied early settlers with
their lumber, and thence looked out through trees to the brown and
shimmering plain lying far below.
"My, I'm glad I'm not there!" exclaimed Amy fervently; "I always say
that," she added.
"A hundred and eleven day before yesterday, Jack Pollock says," remarked
Bob.
So at last they gained the long ridge leading toward the mill and saw a
hundred feet away the mill road, and the forks where their own wagon
trail joined it.
At this point they again entered the forest, screened by young growth
and a thicket of alders.
"Look there," Amy pointed out. "See that dogwood, up by the yellow pine.
It's the most splendiferous we've seen yet. Wait a minute. I'm going to
get a branch of it for Mr. Welton's office. I don't believe anybody ever
picks anything for him."
"Let me--" began Bob; but she was already gone, calling back over her
shoulder.
"No; this is my treat!"
The men stopped in the wagon trail to wait for her.
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