Part 5 (1/2)
”Hadn't you a compa.s.s?”
”No, sir; I got sort of turned around like,--and I went a long hike the wrong way.”
Simply enough, to be sure, but apparently it was only good fortune that had made him find at last the road home to camp.
Light-hearted Peter dismissed the whole affair with a ”Look out after this; and always carry a compa.s.s or take one of us boys along,” and then he sought his fragrant, if not altogether downy couch.
Blair, too, gave the episode little thought, but to Shelby it seemed more important. If a hardened guide could get lost as easily as that, it might happen to any of them. And a compa.s.s was not a sure safeguard. A man could wander round and round without finding a fairly nearby camp.
Shelby was a few years older than the other two, and of a far more prudent nature. He had no dare-devil instincts, and not an overweening love of adventure. He was enjoying his trip because of the outdoor life and wildwood sports, but as for real adventure, he was content to omit it. Not from fear--Kit Shelby was as brave as any,--but he saw no sense in taking unnecessary risks.
While risks were as the breath of life to Peter Boots. Indeed, he was sighing because the conditions of modern camping ways and the efficiency of the guide left little or no chance for risk of life or limb.
He didn't by any means want to lose life or limb, but he was not at all unwilling to risk them pretty desperately. And he found no opportunity.
The days were pleasantly taken up with fis.h.i.+ng, shooting, moving on, setting up and taking down camp, and all the expected routine of a mountain expedition; but, so far, there had been nothing unusual or even uncomfortable to any great degree.
The next day brought a fearful storm, with gales and sleet and driving rain and the temperature dropped many degrees.
The party experienced their first really cold weather, and though it depressed the others Peter seemed to revel in it.
The tent was practically a prison, and an uncomfortable one, for the wind was terrific and the squalls became hourly more menacing.
Shelby was quiet, by reason of a sore throat, and Blair was quiet with a silence that was almost sulky.
Not quite though, for irrepressible Peter kept the crowd good-natured, by the simple process of making jokes and laughing at them himself, so contagiously, that all were forced to join in.
But at last he tired of that, and announced that he was going to write letters.
”Do,” said Shelby, ”and hurry up with them. The postman will be along any minute now.”
Peter grinned, and really set himself to work with paper and pencil.
”I know what you're doing,” said Blair; ”you're beginning our story.”
”I'm not, but that isn't half a bad idea. Let's start in, Gil. We can plan it and make up names and things----”
”Why can't you really write it?” asked Shelby. ”I should think it would be the psychological moment. Isn't it to be all about the storms and other indigenous delights of Labrador?”
”You take that tone and I'll pitch you out into the indigenous delights,” threatened Peter. ”Come on, Gilbert, let's block out the backbone of the yarn right now.”
They set to work, and by dint of much discussing, disagreeing, ballyragging and bulldozing each other, they did make a fair start.
”What's the heroine like?” asked Shelby, beginning to be interested.
”Like Carly Harper,” said Blair promptly.
”Not the leastest, littlest mite like Carly Harper,” said Peter, his blue eyes hardening with determination.
”Why not?” demanded Blair, who cared little what the heroine was like; but who objected to contradiction without reason.