Walter fired five shots into the river. After an interval Chunky let
go five more. This continued until each had fired a round of five
shots. After each round they listened for an answering shot from
above, but none came. Thus matters continued until noon, when the
remaining food was distributed among the party.

"This is worse than nothing," cried Chunky. "This excites my appetite.
If you see me frothing at the mouth don't think I've got a dog bite.
That's my appetite fighting with my stomach. I'll bet my gun that the
appetite wins too."

The day wore away slowly. Tad made frequent trips down the river as
far as he could get before being stopped by a great wall of rock that
rose abruptly for nearly a thousand feet above him. He gazed up this
glittering expanse of rock until his neck ached, then he went back to
camp. An idea was working in Tad's mind, but it was as yet undeveloped.

At intervals the shots were tried again, though no reply followed. Night
came on. Before dark Dad had gathered some driftwood that he found in
crevices of the rocks. The wood was almost bone dry and a crackling,
cheerful fire was soon burning.

"If we only had something to eat now, we'd be all right," said Walter
mournfully.

"You want something to eat?" questioned Chunky.

"I should say I do."

"Oh, well, that's easily fixed."