"Are you going to blame me for going wrong?" demanded the poetic youth.
"I wonder if he would be any good after game?" said Sam as he looked at Wags.
"I doubt it," said Tom. "An educated dog—that is, a trick dog—rarely knows anything else. But, nevertheless, I think Wags remarkably bright."
It was not until four o'clock that they went on once more. According to what they had been told, they ought now to be coming in sight of a cattle ranch kept by some old cattle men, but nothing like a ranch appeared.
"This is queer, to say the least," remarked Tom as they came to a halt in a small clearing. "What do you make of it, Dick?"
"I shouldn't like to say, just yet."
"Do you think we are on the wrong trail?" queried Fred quickly.
"We may be."
"Of dot is so, den, py Jiminatics, ve vos lost!" ejaculated Hans. "Now, vosn't dot lofly alretty?"
"Lost?" cried Fred.
"That's the size of it," cried Songbird. "We must have taken to the wrong trail after our little race."
"You found the trail for us," remarked Tom dryly.
