When we get past that little arm of the woods just ahead we ought to see the right light then, huh ?" "_Spur_ is the right name for it, not _arm_," said Tom.

"You might as well say it right." "The pleasure is mine," laughed Roscoe; "Tommy, you're as good as a circus." They made their way in a southeasterly direction, following the edge of the woods, with the open country to the north and east of them.
Presently they reached the "spur," as Tom called it, which seemed to consist of a little "cape" of woods, as one might say, sticking out eastward.

They could shorten their path a trifle by cutting through here, and this they did, Roscoe (notwithstanding Tom's stolid self-confidence) watching anxiously for the light which this spur had probably concealed, and which would assure them that they were heading southward toward the path which led into Cantigny village.
Once, twice, in their passage through this little clump of woods Tom paused, examining the trees and ground, picking up small branches and looking at their ends, and throwing them away again.
"Funny how those branches got broken off," he said.
Roscoe answered with a touch of annoyance, the first he had shown since their meeting in the woods.
"I'm not worrying about those twigs," he said; "I don't see that light and I think we're headed wrong." "They're not twigs," said Tom literally; "they're branches, and they're broken off." "Any fool could tell the reason for that," said Roscoe, rather scornfully.

"It's the artillery fire." Tom said nothing, but he did not accept Roscoe's theory.

He believed that some one had been through here before them and that the branches had been broken off by human hands; and but for the fact that Roscoe had let him have his own way in the matter of direction he would have suggested that they make a detour around this woody spur.