AN ANXIOUS SEARCH
George Abbot had the luck of finding the road for which he and his
chums had all vainly sought so long in the storm. It will be remembered
that the four boys had started in different directions, corresponding
to the different points of the compass, to search for a route, either
back to the hut where they had spent the night, or to one of the three
camps.
And it was George who found the road.
True he did not know which road it was at the time, but when he had
stumbled on through the drifting snow, fighting his way against the
storm for some time, he fairly tumbled down a little embankment,
rolling over and over.
“Well, what’s this?” George asked himself, rather dazed, as he rose to
his feet.
He had his answer in a moment.
“It’s a road--I hope it’s _the_ road,” he went on, as he saw that the
little declivity down which he had fallen was where the road had been
cut through a hill, leaving a slope on either side of the highway.
“I must signal to the others at once,” George decided. His gun had
slipped from his grasp when he fell, but he now picked up the weapon,
and fired two shots in quick succession. It was the signal agreed upon.
The wind was blowing hard, and George was not sure that the sound
of the shots would carry to his chums. He did not know just how far
they were from him. So, after waiting a bit, he strolled down the
snow-covered road a bit, and fired again. He repeated this three times,
at intervals, before he heard an answering shot. Then he raised his
voice in a yell, and soon was relieved to be joined by Jack.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
“The road--I’ve found it,” George answered.
“Where’s Bert--and Tom?”
“Haven’t seen either of them.”
“Well, they’re probably looking yet. We’ll fire some more shots and
bring ’em up.”
George and Jack fired at intervals, the signal each time being two
rapid shots, but it was some time before they had an answer. It finally
came in the shape of another shot, followed quickly by a shout.
“It’s Bert,” said George.
“Sounded more like Tom,” was his chum’s guess. While they waited, they
exchanged experiences. Jack told of vainly floundering about in the
drifts, while George had better news to impart.
“I fairly stumbled on the road,” he said.
“Any way at all, as long as you found it,” said Jack. “Here comes
someone now.”
It proved to be Bert, who staggered up through the storm, himself
almost a living snowball.
“Found anything?” he gasped, for he was quite “winded.”
“The road,” answered George.
“Where’s Tom?” asked Jack.
“Why, isn’t he with you?” asked Bert, in some surprise. “I haven’t seen
anything of him.”
“He’s probably off searching for a highway,” said George, hopefully.
“We’ll fire a few more shots.”
They fired more than a few, but received no response from Tom, and we
well know the reason why, though his chums did not at the time.
“Well, what had we better do?” asked Jack, at length. “I’m about all
in, and I guess you fellows feel about the same.”
“I would like something to eat,” admitted Bert.
“And I’m terribly cold,” confessed George, who was shivering.
“Well, let’s look about a bit on either side of this road, then go up
and down it a ways, and keep firing and shouting,” suggested Jack. “We
may find Tom. If we don’t--well, I think we’d better see where this
road goes.”
They adopted that plan, but though they shouted vigorously, and fired
many shots, there came no answer from Tom.
The exercise and the shouting, however, had one good result. It warmed
George so he was no longer in danger of coming down with pneumonia.
“Well, it’s six of one and a half dozen of the other,” said Bert, at
length. “What shall we do, and which way shall we go on this road to
get to camp?”
“We’d better try to find one of the cabins,” said Jack. “And I think
this direction seems to be the most likely,” and he pointed to the left.
“Go ahead; I’m with you,” said Bert, and George nodded assent.
“What about Tom, though?” asked George, anxiously.
“Well, we can’t find him. He may have gone on ahead, or he may still be
searching for a road. In either case he’s too far off for us to make
him hear--that’s evident. And we may find him just as well by trying to
make our way back to camp as staying here,” said Jack.
So it was decided to do this, and off they started. The storm did not
seem quite so fierce now. In fact, there were indications that the fall
of snow was lessening. But a great deal had fallen, making walking
difficult. The cold was intense, but it was a dry cold, not like the
damp, penetrating air of New Jersey, and the boys stood it much better.
They had not gone far before Jack uttered a cry.
“Here he comes! There’s Tom!” he shouted, pointing at a figure
advancing toward them through the mist of flakes that were still
falling, but more lazily now.
“It’s someone, but how do you know it’s Tom?” asked Bert.
“Who else would it be?” Jack wanted to know.
“It might be--Skeel,” suggested George.
“Or that--bear!” and, as he said this, Bert advanced his gun.
“Nonsense--that’s no bear!” exclaimed Jack. “It isn’t Tom though,
either,” he added, as the figure came nearer.
A moment later they all saw at once who it was.
“Sam Wilson!” exclaimed Bert. “That’s good! Now he can tell us what to
do, and where Tom is. Hello, Sam!” he called, for that was how everyone
addressed the genial guide--even those who had met him only once or
twice.
“Hello yourselves!” Sam answered in greeting. “What are you fellows
doing here?”
“We’ve been lost, and we’ve just found ourselves,” explained Jack.
“We’re on our way to Camp No. 3.”
“Oh, no, you’re not!” exclaimed Sam, smiling.
“Why not?” Bert wanted to know.
“For the simple reason that you’re on your way to Camp No. 2,” answered
Sam. “You’re going the wrong way for Camp No. 3.”
“Well, maybe we are twisted,” admitted Jack, “but as long as we’re
headed for some camp, I don’t care what it is.
“We’ve been out all night,” he added, “or at least sheltered in only an
old cabin. We haven’t had anything to-day but some coffee, and we’re
about done out. Isn’t this storm fierce?”
“Oh, we’re used to these up here in the Adirondacks,” spoke Sam.
Then the boys told how they had been out hunting and had seen the
signpost that informed them it was seven miles to Ramsen.
“But you went the wrong way!” exclaimed Sam, when he had heard the
details. “Ramsen was in just the opposite direction.”
“Then the signboard was wrong!” declared Jack.
“That’s funny,” Sam spoke, musingly. “Signboards don’t change
themselves that way. There’s something wrong here.”
“Well, never mind that,” went on Bert. “Have you seen anything of Tom
Fairfield?”
“Tom Fairfield! Why, I thought he was with you!” exclaimed Sam, quickly
looking around.
“He was, but we separated to find the road,” explained George, “and now
we can’t locate Tom.”
“Well, this won’t do,” Sam spoke, and his voice was serious. “We will
have to hunt for him right away. He hasn’t had anything to eat, you
say?”
“None of us have,” said Jack. “That’s why we were so glad to find some
sort of road.”
“Well, I’ve got my pung back there a piece,” said the guide. “I have
some grub in it that I was taking over to your Camp No. 2. I can give
you a snack from that, and then we’ll do some searching for the boy. I
like Tom Fairfield!”
“So do I!” exclaimed Jack, and the others nodded emphatic agreements,
with a chorus of:
“That’s what!”
Never did food taste so good as that which Sam brought up from his
pung. He explained that he had walked on ahead while his horses were
eating their dinners from nose-bags.
“And it’s lucky for you fellows I did,” he said, “though of course you
might have stumbled on the camp yourselves. But now for a search.”
And with anxious hearts the boys took it up. Where could Tom Fairfield
be? That was a question each one asked himself.