No trails were to be seen, of course; only wriggling lines of shadow, as they seemed, now visible, now half visible, now fading out altogether like breath on a piece of glass.
It seemed incredible that mere paths, often all but undiscernible close at hand, should be distinguishable from this distance.

But there they were, and it needed only visual concentration upon them to perceive that they were not well defined paths to be sure, but thin, faint lines of shadow.

They lacked substance, but there they were.
"That's old Tyrant," Tom said.

"See ?" Hervey would never have recognized the mountain.

The side of it which they saw was not at all like the familiar side which faced Temple Camp.
That frowning, jungle-covered ascent seemed less forbidding from the river, but how Tom could identify it was beyond Hervey's comprehension.
It was apparent that by following a road which began at Catskill they would skirt the mountain along its less precipitous ascent, and Tom assumed that the trail, so doubtfully and elusively marked upon the height, would be easily discoverable where it left the road, as undoubtedly it did.
Deduction and calculation were not at all in Hervey's line; he would have been quite satisfied to plunge into the interminable thicket on the side near camp and get lost there.
"You see there is more than one way to kill a cat," Tom observed.