He drew the hatchet from his belt and cut a chip out of the bark of a hickory.

A hundred yards further on he did the same thing, and, at three hundred yards or so, he cut the chip for the third time.

He looked well at the marks, saw that they were clear, distinct and unmistakable, and then the peculiar little smile of satisfaction would pass again over his face.
But these stops were only momentary.

Save for them he never ceased his rapid course, and always it led straight toward the south.

When the sun was squarely overhead, pouring down a flood of golden beams, he paused in the shade of a mighty oak, and took food from his belt.