The youthful adventurers were on the march, and were tramping along on
their snow-shoes in high spirits. Long-legged Step led, followed in
order by Poke, Herman Boyd, the Trojan and the Shark. Then came Orkney,
lagging a little, with Sam at his heels. All were warmly clothed, but
their luggage was of the lightest, being limited, indeed, to a small
axe, carried in a holster, attached to Herman’s belt.
For a half mile the tote road led through a growth of pine and spruce;
but then, at the crest of a little hill, they came to a more open
tract. The road bent to the left; but straight before them was an
inviting slope.
Sam saw the leaders halt and put their heads together. When he came up
to them Step was speaking eagerly.
“Why not, fellows? Gee, but we might as well have all the fun that’s
going! Who wants to go poking along an old sleigh track when he might
be cutting across country? And think of what we’d save! Mr. Kane said
the road made a right angle--you figure it out, Shark.”
“Huh! No given quantities,” snapped the Shark.
“Why not? Call it fifteen miles to Coreytown. Say the angle is
half-way. What’s the answer, Old Skeesicks?”
“Nine-decimal-point-two-plus,” answered the Shark promptly.
Step was exultant. “What did I tell you! Six miles to the good!”
“But what’s the direction?” demanded Sam.
“Why, straight ahead,” said Step, and pointed down the slope.
“How do you know?”
“Must be.”
“I don’t see why.”
Poke took a hand. “Look here, Shark! Can’t you figure out the course?”
The Shark frowned. “You never heard of the word ‘exact,’ did you? You
want me to treat a wiggling road like two straight lines meeting at a
right angle. But if you’ve got to assume everything, you might as well
pile it on. So, if you assume that there is a right angled, isosceles
triangle--two sides equal, understand?--then each of the acute angles
will be of forty-five degrees. And so, to travel to the hypothenuse,
you’d steer forty-five degrees from the line of the road.”
“Oh, sure!” said Step hastily. “Sure you would! But I haven’t a
compass, or dividers, or--or whatever it is you use.”
“Got a watch, haven’t you?” snorted the Shark. “Well, use that! Fifteen
minutes on the dial equals ninety degrees. Forty-five degrees is the
same as seven minutes, thirty seconds. There’s your angle for you. Hang
it! don’t you fellows know anything?”
Step pulled out his timepiece. “Fine! Just as I said--straight ahead.
And say! See that big hill--way off--pointed top! It’s a bit misty, but
it’s right on our line, and it makes a cracking landmark. Come on, you
chaps!”
“Suits me,” said Poke.
“Ditto,” declared the Trojan.
“Here also,” chimed in Herman Boyd.
The Shark, scornfully indifferent, said nothing. Tom Orkney also was
silent. It was a trifle, but significant: he was with the club, but not
of it.
Sam’s expression was dubious. The “weather,” forecasted by the camp
boss, seemed to be threatening to break. The low lying clouds had
grown denser in the last quarter hour, and the wind was rising. In
the shelter of the pines its strength had not been manifest, but once
beyond the edge of the woods, nobody could fail to heed the force of
the chilling blasts. Still, it would be as keen along the tote road as
anywhere else. Sam was not losing sight of his motto of “Safety First”;
but at the moment it did not occur to him that harm was likely to
befall half a dozen active, able-bodied youngsters. Yet he hesitated.
The plan had been to follow the road, and it had been approved by Mr.
Kane.
Step, confident in the support of a majority of the club, started down
the hill. After him trailed the Trojan, Poke, Herman Boyd, and the
Shark. There was nothing for Sam to do but to follow, in company with
Tom Orkney.
At first progress was easy. The snow was smooth, and though the wind
increased it was at their backs. Presently there was a brisk snow
squall, the tiny flakes driving in a blinding cloud. Step quickened his
pace, and led the party to the shelter of a clump of trees.
The squall passed, but left a narrowed horizon. The peak of the big
hill, which was to have served as a guide-post, had vanished. There
was even a good-natured dispute as to the general direction in which
it lay. Step, insisting that he was certain of its bearings, set off
again, leading in a détour about the grove. Then came a hill, not
lofty but so steep that he circled its base. Down upon the squad swept
another squall, fiercer than the first. The boys struggled through it,
enjoyed a moment’s respite, and again found themselves in the midst of
swirling, stinging clouds of icy particles.
Orkney was having trouble with the snow-shoes he had borrowed from Mr.
Kane; the Trojan took a header over a fallen tree; Poke slipped down
a bank. None of the mishaps was serious, but together they served to
bring the party to a halt.
When the savage gusts subsided for a little the boys moved on. Step,
as guide, did his best to hold a straight line, but failed signally.
The country was broken, irregularly wooded, full of hummocks and
tiny valleys as confusing as a maze. Moreover, the snowfall was
becoming heavier, being so dense at times that it shut off the view as
completely as if it were a fog.
An over-tight thong made Herman Boyd fall out of line to readjust the
fastenings of one of his snow-shoes; and he was so long in rejoining
the party that Sam passed a word or two of caution. “Don’t straggle”
was his advice. Its effect was seen in a closing of the gaps. By this
time there was no shouting or joking. Nobody was frightened, but it had
dawned upon the most heedless of the club that they had their work cut
out for them. Halts became more frequent; in them there was a tendency
to huddle.
According to Sam’s reckoning the trail leading from the branch railroad
to the camps crossed the district in which they were, but they had not
stumbled upon it. Still, it could be missed easily; for it was little
traveled, and such drifts as were forming would quickly hide its
traces. Orkney thought that Peter Groche might have taken the short-cut
on his last trip from Plainville, but did not believe that it had been
used by anybody else in a week. Presumably the tote road was to their
left, but its distance was indefinite. As for turning back--well, Sam
considered the idea but briefly. It would involve not only a hard tramp
in the teeth of the storm but also confession of failure. Besides, to
find the camp would be no easy matter; for in many places the party’s
own tracks undoubtedly had been blotted out.
In a general way Step, as well as Sam, had counted upon keeping the
wind at their backs; but in one of the pauses for rest the Shark called
attention to the fact that his spectacles were dimmed by a thin layer
of snow on the lenses.
“Been driving straight in my face for the last three minutes,” he
declared. “We’re utterly twisted, or the gale’s shifting every which
way.”
“Well, I’m doing my best,” Step insisted. “Say, though! If you’re so
clever in turning a watch into all sorts of things, make it a compass,
won’t you? Seems to me I’ve heard it can be done.”
“Certainly it can,” said the Shark. “Very simple method. Only you’ve
got to be able to see the sun. No chance of that now.”
There was dismal murmur of assent. Overhead there was no break in the
dark clouds.
When the next halt was made, debate on the direction of the wind was
resumed. It led to agreement that, as the Shark’s phrase was, it was
shifting every which way. There was agreement, too, that its force was
waxing. And, having reached these not very cheering conclusions, they
could do nothing but trudge on.
Half an hour later they had impressive evidence of the danger of
their plight. Herman Boyd, falling out again to retie his snow-shoes,
had such difficulty with the stubborn rawhide that he lost sight of
his companions, and, when he tried to overtake them, discovered that
their tracks, made but a few minutes before, had been obliterated by
the driving snow. Meanwhile the others, alarmed by his absence, had
turned back, in open order, at Sam’s suggestion; but, even with this
precaution, covering as much ground as possible, they nearly missed
Herman. Luckily the Trojan, on the extreme left of the line, finally
heard a faint shout, and answering lustily, had the relief, presently,
of seeing the wanderer flounder out of the heart of a blinding cloud of
flakes.
Then came a council of war. There must be no more straggling. Whatever
happened, all must keep in touch.
Poke was the next to be found in trouble. Down he slumped in the
snow, and feebly resisted when Sam and Orkney tried to raise him. The
web of one of his snow-shoes had pulled away from the frame, and,
incidentally, had wrenched his ankle. All this involved a halt, while
the Trojan and Step repaired the damaged shoe with a spare strip of
rawhide--it was a slow and painful job for numbed fingers--and Sam
argued zealously with Poke on the exceeding folly of dropping into a
doze.
When they went on, a change had been made in the procession. Step now
kept close to the crippled Poke, giving over the leadership to Sam,
who, on his part, brought the Shark to the second place in the line.
The Shark, as has been said, was physically the weakest of the club,
but so far had fared better than some of his stouter friends. As before
Orkney acted as rear guard.
Sam’s plan was simple, but perhaps as wise a plan as he could have
made in the conditions. It was to find the valley of some stream and
follow it out of the hill country. In the lowlands there would be the
chance of reaching some farm, if not a village. Shelter was coming
to be the first great need. The storm was getting worse and worse.
The snow was falling as heavily as ever, the wind blew with almost
hurricane fury, and the cold was intense. It penetrated the heaviest
coats and mufflers. The boys shivered even as they toiled on, pluckily
if weariedly following their guide.
For a little, Fortune seemed to be kinder. They came to what may once
have been a woods road, which for half a mile gave them a clear, if
winding, path. Then the road ended in a tangled, upland swamp, through
which there was no passage.
While they slowly circled the obstacle Sam’s brain was busy. It was his
business, evidently, to search for the brook draining the swamp; but
so great was the extent of the marshy tract that at last he gave up the
task, and turned into a ravine leading between low hummocks. After him
trailed a slow procession, its pace regulated by the limping Poke.
Sam turned to the Shark.
“How far have we come--if you had to guess?” he asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Guess, anyway.”
The Shark took thought for a moment or two. Then he glanced at his
watch.
“We’ve been out six hours and----”
Sam groaned. “Six? I feel as if it was nearer twenty-four!”
“It’s six. We traveled fast at the start, but we’ve been crawling
lately. Call it twelve miles, all told.”
“Oh, more than that!”
“Huh! Guess yourself, then!”
“But even twelve ought to bring us somewhere. And the farms stretch
some distance this side of Coreytown.”
“Umph!” was the Shark’s non-committal comment.
Sam glanced ahead. They were nearing the mouth of the ravine, beyond
which the ground appeared to fall sharply. Again he turned to the Shark.
“Never saw a fiercer storm,” said he.
“Blizzard!”
“May last a couple of days.”
“They do,” said the Shark grimly, and burrowed deeper in the upturned
collar of his coat.
“Well, we can’t stand much more like this. We’ll have to stop and try
to do something--rig a windbreak, maybe.”
“And freeze?”
Sam’s eye rested for an instant on the laboring Poke.
“Perhaps we can get a fire going. Anyway, we’ve got----”
There he broke off, amazed by the eagerness with which the Shark was
rubbing his glasses with gloved fingers.
“What is it?” Sam asked in haste.
Out shot the Shark’s arm. “Look yourself! There’s something yonder! Oh,
if only----”
But his speech was drowned by a jubilant shout. In spite of the
driving snow, and in spite, too, of a veil of intervening branches, Sam
had made out a chimney and the shoulder of a steep roof.