Part 20 (2/2)

”Fellows,” spoke up d.i.c.k, ”if this blizzard is to continue, we'll presently freeze to death in here unless we get more firewood while we can.”

”All right,” grinned Dalzell. ”I've a suggestion, and it's a bully one.

We'll appoint Hen Dutcher a committee of one on the woodpile. Go out and study your subject, Hen, and bring in your report--I mean, a cord of wood.”

”No, you don't!” protested Hen sullenly.

”Get on, now! Beat your way to the wood pile,” ordered Tom Reade.

”No slang, please,” mocked Dave. ”How can a fellow who's going to work hard beat his way, I'd like to know?”

”If you don't think you'd have to beat your way, to reach the wood pile to-night,” retorted Tom, ”then just go out again and face the wind and storm. Hen, are you going?”

”No, I'm not,” snapped Dutcher.

”Then I'm a prophet,” declared Reade solemnly. ”I can see you and me having trouble.”

”I won't go,” cried Hen, with an ugly leer. ”I know what you want to do. You want to drive me out to that shanty, so that big fellow will jump on me. Go yourself, Mr. Tom Reade.”

”It's too hard a storm for any one fellow to bring in the wood alone,”

interjected d.i.c.k. ”I'll go, and so will Greg. Hen, you'll come with us.”

”No, I won't.”

”Yes, you will,” d.i.c.k informed him. ”We've got to leave some of the fellows here, to guard the doorway against Mr. Fits. We three will go and attend to it all, and the rest of the fellows will stay right by the door and see that Mr. Fits, who has been kind enough to go, stays gone.

Get on your coat, Greg, and you, too, Hen.”

”I'll stay and help guard,” proposed Dutcher.

”A bully guard you'd make,” jeered Tom. ”Into your coat--or else you'll go without one.”

Tom took hold of Hen by the collar, propelling him rapidly across the cabin floor. d.i.c.k and Greg were slipping rapidly into coats, caps, overshoes and mittens. d.i.c.k picked up the crowbar and Greg the lantern.

Hen Dutcher, making the gloomy discovery that it must be work or fight, submitted sulkily.

”Don't hold the door open. Open it when we holler,” was d.i.c.k's parting direction.

”Whew!” muttered Greg, as they stepped outside. The wind blew in their faces as they went around the end of the cabin, nearly taking their breath, while the snow proved, even now, to be above their knees.

”We can do this in the morning just as well,” cried Hen, panting in the effort to make himself heard. ”Let's go back.”

”You try it, if you dare!” challenged Greg, waving the lantern in the other boy's face.

Even with that short distance to go, it took the three youngsters some little time to reach the great pile of logs. Sparks were flying from the chimney-top of the shack, showing that Mr. Fits was preparing to warm himself.

”And that's the way we've treated the fellow who stole mother's Christmas present, and mine,” muttered d.i.c.k.

At last the boys reached the pile of logs. d.i.c.k tackled it bravely with the crowbar. Shortly he had half a dozen logs clear, though he was panting, both from the beating of the storm and from the hard labor he had taken upon himself.

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