Part 11 (1/2)

”Did he attack you?”

”He certainly did,” answered Chet.

Both boys entered the temporary shelter. Barwell Dawson was awake, and he and Andy listened with keen attention to the story Chet had to tell.

”It must have been the moose I hit,” said Barwell Dawson. ”But I think he's your game anyway, Chet.”

”Well, we can divide up,” answered the young hunter, modestly.

The tramp in the snow, and the excitement, had made Chet weary, and he was glad enough to lie down and go to sleep. During his absence, Andy had cut more pine boughs and piled them around the sides and on top of the shelter, so it was now fairly cozy, although not nearly as good as a cabin would have been.

In the morning Andy was the first to stir. He found the entrance to the shelter blocked by snow, and the campfire was all but out. The snow had stopped coming down, but the air seemed to be still full of it.

”We've got to get out of here, or we'll be snowed in for certain,” he told Chet, and then kicked the snow aside and started up the fire, and commenced to get breakfast. They cooked one of the wild turkeys, and it proved delicious eating to the lads, although Mr. Dawson thought the meat a trifle strong.

The man who had had the tumble over the cliff declared that he felt quite like himself, aside from his ankle, which still pained him. The swelling of the member had gone down some, which was a good sign.

”I guess your uncle will wonder what has become of you,” said Chet to Andy. ”I suppose he'll hunt all over the village for you.”

”Let him hunt, Chet. I am not going back until I find out about that timber land, and about what sort of man that Hopton is. The more I think of it, the more I'm convinced that Mr. A. Q. Hopton is a swindler and is trying to swindle both Uncle Si and myself.”

”Well, it's no credit to your uncle to stand in with him.”

”Of course it isn't--and I'll give Uncle Si a piece of my mind when I get the chance.”

”I don't think you're going to get to Lodgeport today.”

”Well, it doesn't matter much. I don't think there is any great hurry about this business. The matter has rested ever since father died.”

This talk took place outside the shelter, so Barwell Dawson did not hear it. Inside, the man dressed his ankle, while the boys cleared away the remains of the morning meal, and started the fire afresh with more pine sticks.

”We really ought to try to get out of here,” said Andy, after an hour had pa.s.sed. ”I think it will snow again by night, and it would be rough to be snow-bound in such a place as this.”

”I'd like to get out myself, but I am afraid I can't walk,” said Barwell Dawson, with a sigh. ”A bruised ankle is worse than a broken arm--when it comes to traveling,” he added, with a grim smile.

”Supposing we took turns at carrying you?” suggested Chet. ”I think we could do it.”

”How far?”

”Well, we might try for a cabin that is about three-quarters of a mile from here. We'd be far more comfortable at the cabin than here,--and maybe you could get some liniment for your bruises.”

”Well, I'm willing to try it if you are,” answered Mr. Dawson, who did not like the temporary shelter any better than did the boys.

Preparations were accordingly made, and half an hour later the party of three set off. It was agreed that Chet should first do the carrying of the hurt one, and Andy brought up the rear with the guns, game bags, and other things.

CHAPTER VIII

A TALK OF IMPORTANCE