W
HENthe chatter had ceased and the fellows were all dropping off to sleep, the interior of the tight old log cabin was still aglow from the light of the fire. That light was so bright that, one after another, the boys turned over, their faces to the wall.
And then no sound was heard, save the weird howling of the wind outside, with an occasional sputter as a stray gust of snow swept down the broad chimney to the roaring fire. Every Grammar School boy, as he dropped off to sleep, knew that a big blizzard was still in progress.
"I wonder if I'll sleep a wink, for thinking of Mr. Fits, and what he may try to do to us in the night," thought Dan Dalzell, while his lids fell heavily. "If I do sleep, it will be to wake every little while with a start. Well, so much the better. If I wake often I'm likely to hear the scoundrel if he starts anything around here—when he—thinks—we're—so drowsy that we're dead to the world—and—gullup!"
That last exclamation was a snore. Dan was conscious of waking once, though at what time he did not know. He noted that the fire seemedto have burned very low, and that it was almost wholly dark within the cabin. Then he dozed. When he awoke once more he could see no glow whatever from the fire. The lantern that had been left lighted had flickered out. Dan felt oppressed by a sense of something awesome.
"What on earth can the time be?" Dan wondered, now quite wide awake and just slightly uneasy. As he peered about through the dark he made out what looked very much like a narrow ray of daylight through a crack in one of the closed shutters.
"It can't be morning," muttered Dan. "And yet—why is the fire out? We left a bully one going."
Dan had thrown his jacket on to the bunk before retiring. Now, he sat up, reaching for the jacket.
"Gracious but it's cold!" gasped Dan, as the chill struck him.
"Shut up!" growled Dave Darrin's drowsy voice. "Don't wake everybody."
"What's the matter?" chimed in Dick Prescott sleepily.
"It's—it's cold," chattered Dan, as he sank back under the blankets. Here he quickly warmed. And he had gotten what he had looked for, a battered old dollar watch and a box of matches.
"Keep under the clothes and you'll be all right," returned Dick soothingly. "But, my! With that fire out some of the fellows are going to have a cold time getting up and building one in the morning."
Dan's teeth chattered for a minute or two. Then he sat up once more, striking a match and holding up his watch. Dalzell stared incredulously at the hands and the dial before he tossed the extinguished match to the floor and sank back once more under the blankets.
"S-s-say, do you fellows know what time it is?" shivered Dan.
"What time?" called Dick and Dave softly.
"It's half past nine."
"Nonsense," ridiculed Dave. "It was after ten when we went to bed."
"It's after half past nine—in the morning," retorted Dan impressively.
"Glory, but I believe you're right," ejaculated Prescott. "I can see just a tiny crack of daylight over by one of the shutters."
"It's morning, all right," Dan insisted. "And the fire's out. Wake up, fellows! Who's going to start a new fire?"
"I will," volunteered Tom Reade. "Great Scott! No; I won't, either," he ejaculated, after having thrust his legs out of his bunk preparatory to jumping up. "Oh, don't I wishwe could carry a million freight carloads of this cold air back with us! We could make our fortunes selling it to a cold storage company."
"I guess we'll have to call for two volunteers," laughed Dick, after having thrust a foot out. "I'll volunteer, for one. Who'll be the other?"
"Hen Dutcher!" came with wonderful unanimity from the others.
"Not on your life I won't!" retorted Hen with vigor. "I won't freeze myself for any gang of fellows, and that's flat. I'm going to dress by a warm fire when I dress."
"Well," said Dan ruefully, "as I woke all the others up, I guess it's up to me to volunteer. Say when you're ready, Dick."
"Now!" answered Prescott.
"Please don't be so sudden," pleaded Dan. "Give a fellow just a bit of warning. Count three; no, make it ten."
So Dick counted. At ten both he and Dan leaped from their bunks. They were sorry, the instant their feet struck the floor, which seemed at least twenty degrees colder than ice. Both shook and shivered as they pulled on their underclothes, shoes which they did not stop to lace, then shirts, trousers, vests and jackets.
"Br-r-r-r-r! M-m-m-m—!" was all the sound Dan could make. He was trying to frame words,but his teeth wouldn't stop long enough. Dick made a dive for a lot of excelsior that had come around some of their goods the day before. This he threw into the dead, cold fireplace. Dan, shaking as though with ague, brought a log and laid it across the excelsior. Dick brought some more firewood. In a short time they had it well heaped. Then Dick poured coal oil over the whole, and Dan, with palsied fingers, made three attempts before he could open his match box and strike a match. The temperature in the cabin must have been around zero, for it was twenty below outside that same morning.
At last the lighted match reached the oil soaked excelsior, but before it could ignite, the cold wind that was roaring down the chimney blew it out.
Dick was too cold to talk, but he made a dive for his cap, and held it in place over some of the excelsior, while shaking Dan miserably felt for another match. This time the tiny flame caught in the excelsior.
"It's a g-g-g-g-go!" chattered Dick.
"M-m-m-me for b-b-b-b-bed!" chattered Dan, racing back to his bunk in the starting light of the fire and diving in under the blankets.
But Dick Prescott stuck at his post. He saw the excelsior blaze briskly. Then the flames licked at the oil over the logs. Thirty secondsafter that, and the cabin interior was fairly well lighted by the increasing blaze. Dick wouldn't go back to his bunk, but stood with his back as close as he dared to the fire. Yet the cold air was all around him, and, while his back baked the rest of his body was so cold that his teeth continued to play against each other in six eight time.
"Why don't you get back into bed?" called Tom Reade lazily from his warmth under blankets. But Dick stuck it out. When the first logs were a seething mass of ruddy fire Dick, now chattering less, brought more short logs and piled them on in place. The wind, that day, would take all the wood that was fed to the fire. Gradually Dick stopped chattering. At last he even felt comfortable.
"You fellows can get up now just as well as not," he announced.
Dan was the first to try it.
"Something like," he announced. That brought Dave Darrin out. One by one the other fellows followed—all except Hen.
"You don't catch me out of my bunk until breakfast is ready," announced young Dutcher.
Dick wheeled impatiently, at this hint, but Dave Darrin whispered in his ear:
"Let it go at that, Dick. But after breakfast we'll make him wash all the dishes—every one—and spend the rest of the forenoon slicking up around the place. If he refuses—well, we'll know how to bring him to time."
So Hen was ignored for the time being. Dan and Greg busied themselves in the first breakfast preparations. Dick and Dave, presently, went over to one of the windows, forcing it back and tugging at the shutter, which proved to be frozen in place.
"Bring some hot water, Dan, the minute you get it," urged Dick. This was soon ready and a small amount of it was poured around the sill, loosening the shutter, which was shoved back.
"Glory! Look at the storm!" cried Dick. There was a rush after the glass window had been closed.
Never had a prettier snow scene been exposed to view. The snow was still swirling down, while what had fallen was up level with the window.
"It's a good four feet deep, already!" cried Dave.
"And looks as though it would go on snowing for a week," added Tom Reade joyously.
"Fellows," announced Dick, "we're surely snowbound. That's something that we've often dreamed about. Say, wouldn't it be queer if we had a long spell of this sort of thing, and couldn't—simply couldn't—get back to CentralGrammar by the time school opens again after the holidays?"
"If the food holds out it'll be fun," assented Tom Reade.
Soon another shutter was opened, admitting more daylight. When they got around to the rear window, and got it open, Dick pointed to the shack in the rear.
"Well, we know that Mr. Fits hasn't been out to-day," Prescott laughed. "Just look at his door. The drifts have piled against it, higher than the door itself."
Snow scenes, however, do not feed any one. So the boys turned back to the kitchen preparations. What if the bacon and eggs didn't look quite neat enough to suit a real housekeeper? The mess tasted good. So did the fried potatoes, made out of the left overs from last night's boiled ones. Coffee, bread and butter and "store pie." No wonder the youngsters, when they were through with breakfast, and in a cabin now warm from one end to the other, felt, as Dick expressed it:
"Say, we're at peace with the whole world, aren't we?" he asked.
"Yes," agreed Dan solemnly. "Mr. Fits is snowed in tight."
"We're even at peace with Hen Dutcher, the miserable shirk," rumbled Tom Reade.
"That reminds me," said Dick, turning. "Hen, it's up to you to wash all the dishes, and to do it tidily, too."
"I won't," retorted Hen defiantly. "I'm no servant to you fellows."
"Hen," observed Dick, with a light in his eyes that meant business, "it's past the time now for you to tell us what you'll do and what you won't do. We didn't invite you here, and you didn't pay any share of the expenses that we have been under. Accident made you our guest; we didn't really want you here at all. The same accident that makes it necessary for you to stay here for the present has kept away the rest of your crowd—Fred Ripley and his pals. While you stay here you'll do your full share of the work. If you don't, you'll soon wish you had. Now, your first job is to wash and dry the dishes. After that you'll tidy up the cabin. I'll show you what's needed in that line. Get to work!"
Hen had grown meeker during this address, for he saw that the other fellows approved all that their leader was saying.
"All right," he muttered; "I'll do it, but it ain't a square deal. I'm your guest and I ought not to work."
"O
URold college chum, Mr. Fits, isn't stirring yet," reported Greg Holmes, after looking out through the rear window that offered the best view of the cook shack at the rear.
"Too bad," muttered Tom Reade, turning away from a front window where he was watching only the steady fall of the flakes. "If he were a neighbor worth having he'd come out and offer to shovel the paths."
"I wonder how cold it is outdoors?" pondered Hazelton aloud.
"Somewhere below zero, certainly," rejoined Tom. "Suppose we call that definite enough?"
"I'd like to get out into this storm," hinted Dave.
"So would I," nodded Dick with energy. "It would be fine to be out in the grandest storm that we've ever seen! Down in Gridley I suppose the folks have the sidewalks cleaned off."
"Don't you believe it," objected Dan Dalzell. "Not in this storm. Horses couldn't get through it to drag a plow, and it would take an army of men to shovel the snow away, for the wind willblow the snow back as fast as a fellow gets a few bushelfuls moved."
"Let's try it and see!" proposed Dick, jumping up and going for his overshoes.
"Mean it?" demanded Dave joyously.
"Surely I do."
"Then I'm with you." Dave ran to where his outdoor apparel lay. "Going with us, Tom?"
"It's a bad example to set some of these small boys," gaped Tom with his most venerable air, "but I'm afraid I can't stay inside while you fellows are enjoying yourselves."
Greg, too, hurried to get on his arctic overshoes and his overcoat. Then he pulled his toboggan cap well down over his ears and neck and donned his mittens.
"There are only two snow shovels," announced Dick. "What are the rest of you going to use?"
"Here's the fire shovel," answered Greg, producing it. "That will be good enough for me."
"Get the door open, Dave," called Dick.
Darrin unbarred the door, trying to swing it open. Tom Reade sprang to his aid, for the bottom of the door was frozen to the sill.
"Bring the hot water, Hen," called Reade.
"Get it yourself," grumbled Hen. But when Tom turned, and Hen saw his face, the latter made haste to bring the tea-kettle.
Dick Plied His Shovel Vigorously.Dick Plied His Shovel Vigorously.
"I'd better pour the water," proposed Tom, taking the kettle. "Dick, you and Dave begin to yank on the door as soon as you see the hot stream trickling on below."
Reade made economical use of the water, yet it took considerable pouring to loosen up the door at the sill.
"Better go slow with that water," warned Dutcher. "It's the last there is in the place."
"Humph!" retorted Tom. "Once we get outside I guess we can dig our way to the spring."
At last the door yielded and swung open. A mass of snow blew in upon them. Dick leaped at the white wall beyond and began plying his shovel vigorously.
"It's light, and can be easily handled," he called back over his shoulder.
So Dave waited until Dick had made a start of three or four feet. Then he moved out beside his chum, while Greg, the iron shovel in hand, stood at hand waiting for the other two to make room enough for him to be able to help them.
Bump! went the door, for those inside, without coats or exercise, felt the cold that rushed into the cabin.
"Where to?" called Dave, for the wind carried their voices off in the howling blast. "To the spring?"
"We'd better," Dick replied, "as we're out of water."
Between the depth of the snow and the fury of the storm the Grammar School boys quickly discovered that they had taken a huge task upon themselves. After more than ten minutes of laborious shoveling all three paused, as by common consent, and looked at the work accomplished. They had gone barely a dozen feet, and under foot, all the way back to the cabin door, the snow was still some two feet deep.
The distance from the door to the spring being some ninety feet, it was plain that more than an hour would be needed for digging the way to the spring.
"What's the use of all this trouble?" shouted Greg. "We can melt snow, anyway."
"Snow water doesn't taste very good," objected Dave Darrin.
"Besides, we don't want to admit ourselves stumped by a little snow," urged Dick. "Come on, fellows; we can make it if we have grit and industry enough. Here goes!"
With that Dick Prescott began to shovel harder than ever, so the two chums added their efforts. Truth to tell, however, ere they had gone another six feet through the big drifts, their backs were aching. They could have progressed more rapidly, but for the fact that thewind blew much of the snow back into the trench they were cutting through the great banks of white stuff.
"Are we going to make it?" asked Dave dubiously at last.
"We've got to," Dick retorted.
"The other fellows ought to come out and help us," proposed Greg.
"That's not a very bad idea, either," Dick agreed, as he started shoveling once more. "Greg, go back and tell them what we want."
Prescott and Darrin went on shoveling, manfully, until Tom, Dan and Harry came wallowing along over what there was of a path and took the shovels.
After that, with twenty minute shifts, the work went along more rapidly, though once in a while one of the shovelers had to go back over the path, digging out where more snow had blown in.
Hen Dutcher was not asked to share in this strenuous work. He had enough to do in the cabin, and this outdoor performance was no work, anyway, for a whiner.
"Get the axe and some of the buckets," called Dick finally, as he, at the head of a shift, reached and located the spring. The water was, of course, covered with a thick armor of ice. Greg moved into position with the axe, striking fast and hard. Dave and Tom, with the snowshovels, moved back over the opened way, keeping it clear in defiance of the gale. As soon as Greg had the ice chopped away sufficiently, Dick, Dan and Harry began to carry water. There was a water barrel in the cabin.
"If we had filled this yesterday we wouldn't have had to work so hard to-day," half grumbled Dan.
"Well, we want to do something, don't we?" retorted Prescott. "What did we come out into the woods for? Just to sit around indoors and eat and sleep?"
With the utmost industry it took a long time for the youngsters to fill the water barrel.
"Now, we've enough for a week, anyway," remarked Dan, as he and Dick poured the last pailfuls into the barrel.
"Perhaps enough for forty eight hours, though we don't want to be too sure," replied Prescott. "We want water enough for cleanliness, for cooking and for drinking. That will be quite a lot, I guess."
The others now came in, for their outdoor exercise had taken up more than two hours of morning time.
"Wood, next, I suppose," remarked Tom, gazing regretfully at the already diminished pile of wood.
"No; there's wood enough to last until to-morrow; probably until the day after," Dave answered.
"But do any of you fellows see the storm stopping?" queried Dick.
"No," Dave and Tom both admitted.
"Then, as there's no telling how long this good old blizzard will last, we'll do well to stack all the wood we can carry into this cabin."
"Why not take a little rest first?" urged Dan. "I'll do my share of the work, all the time, but I'll admit that I'm tired just now."
"We can divide into two shifts, then," suggested Dick. "As I don't feel very tired, I'll get into the first shift. Tom, do you feel plenty strong?"
"Strong?" sniffed young Reade. "Humph! I'm ready, right now, to meet and vanquish the biggest Bermuda onion that you can produce."
Dave had already started for the door. These three leaders of boydom in Gridley began to ply their shovels vigorously, starting from a point in the path already made to the spring. Working through drifts, in some instances more than six feet deep, it was slow work. After twenty minutes they went back to the cabin, Greg, Harry and Dan coming out to take up the work.
Hen Dutcher was still toiling hard, for he had concluded that industry was the only way to save himself unpleasant happenings.
"How soon are you fellows going to knock off and begin to think about dinner?" demanded Hen.
"When we get good enough appetites, I suppose," laughed Dick.
"Appetites?" sniffed Dutcher. "Huh! I could eat one side of a beef critter, right now."
"Go out in the snow and help one of the fellows, then," advised Tom dryly. "After that you'll be able to eat the whole critter."
"But when are you going to eat?" insisted Hen. "It's noon now."
"We'll eat in another hour, I guess, if that suits the crowd," replied Dick.
"I'm ready to eat right now," coaxed Dutcher.
"But you don't belong to the crowd," retorted Dave Darrin grimly. "Unless you want to put up with bread you'll have to wait until the crowd is ready."
"Potatoes will be the first thing ready for dinner, Hen," observed Prescott mildly. "As you're not doing anything outdoors, you might get busy peeling a big pan of potatoes."
"See here," flared Dutcher, "I told you before that I'm no servant, and——"
But Dick had risen, for the clock informed him that it was time to relieve the shift out in the deep snow.
"Suit yourself, Hen," replied Prescott. "Ifyou don't peel the potatoes, and some one else has to do it, then you won't eat any hot dinner to-day. That's flat."
"Isn't Dick Prescott just a mean bully?" growled Hen to himself, as the "relief" stepped outdoors to resume work.
"See that Hen keeps busy peeling and washing potatoes," Dick advised Greg in passing.
Then the three rested shovelers took up the task. The path was now approaching the cook shack at the rear of the cabin.
"Queer, isn't it," inquired Dave, "that we don't see a blessed thing of Mr. Fits to-day, and that there's no smoke going up his chimney."
"Perhaps he has left these parts," suggested Tom, rather hopefully.
"How could he?" Dave wanted to know.
"Maybe he went last night."
"I doubt if he could get away, even last night, at the hour when we turned him adrift," Darrin contended. "A man might have gone a quarter of a mile, but he couldn't go a whole mile."
"He hasn't been out to-day, at any rate," declared Dick. "There isn't a trace of a track anywhere near the shack."
"Let's dig up to that window and look in," suggested Dave.
This was done. A few minutes later the three boys stood at the window, glancing in at all theycould see of the small interior. Beyond the stove and chairs there appeared to be nothing to see.
"Well, our dear friend Fits isn't on the premises—that's certain," remarked Dave Darrin.
Which conclusion might be true, or, again, might not.
W
HENthe boys awoke next morning the fire was still burning, though there was not enough of it left to prevent a thin layer of ice forming over the surface of the water in the barrel. Tom Reade slipped from his bunk, drawing on shoes and trousers, and quickly placed a few more logs over the embers. A few minutes after that it was warm enough for the rest to slip out of their bunks and dress hurriedly—all except Hen Dutcher.
Greg soon busied himself, tea-kettle in hand, with thawing the ice around the bottoms of the sliding shutters.
"No tracks at the cook shack," announced young Holmes. "And say, fellows, it has stopped snowing."
"Well, for once in my life," smiled Dick, "I think I've seen enough snow. I just wonder how the folks in Gridley are getting through it."
"Oh, they must have the streets broken, after a fashion, and some sort of paths on the main sidewalks," responded Tom Reade judicially.
All were now at the windows, looking out over the scene. At only two of the windows, however, could a level view be obtained; the two others were completely blocked by piled up snow. The rest of the windows could be used for observation purposes when the Grammar School lads placed boxes on which to stand.
"The snow looks soft yet," declared Dave.
"It is soft; you can see that in the way that the wind catches it up in flurries," Dick argued.
"Then we can't get far in it to-day," decided Tom Reade. "We can't travel far over the snow until we have a cold spell for twenty-four hours that will freeze the top of the snow into a hard crust."
"When that crust comes we just will travel," muttered Dave.
"Getting tired of camp?" grinned Dalzell.
"No, Danny Grin; but you forget something."
"What?"
"We've got a duty to perform. As soon as we can get where there's a telephone, we've got to send word to the Gridley folks that Mr. Fits is in these parts."
"But Mr. Fits isn't here," Greg objected.
"That's so," Darrin admitted slowly. "And yet the rascal must be somewhere around, for he couldn't get far in such a blizzard as we've been going through."
"What I'm even more anxious about than Mr. Fits is telephoning the news to the home folks that we're all safe here, and as snug and comfortable as can be," Dick interposed. "Whee! But our folks must be worried about us. They'll never let us go camping again in winter."
"Oh, I don't know about that," argued Dave. "If we only prove to them that we can weather such a time as this, without sickness or disaster, they'll be ready to believe that we can take care of ourselves anywhere on earth."
"Why, there isn't anything very hard about taking care of ourselves here," Dick continued. "All we have to do is to show a little industry. We've got everything at hand that we could possibly need. But I wish the home folks knew how comfy and happy we are."
"I'd like to see myself out of this," grumbled Hen Dutcher, lying huddled in his bunk under the pile of overcoats. "Say, fellows, is it warm enough for me to get up yet?"
As all of the real boys in the party were already up, none of them thought it necessary to answer Hen, who presently slid out of his bunk and began to dress rapidly.
"What are we going to have to eat this morning, and when?" Hen wanted to know.
"I guess we'll have a light breakfast this morning," hinted Reade.
"Why?" demanded Dutcher, his jaw dropping.
"So we can have a better appetite for the turkey we brought along. Fellows, don't you think we'd better eat that turkey to-day? It may not keep."
"Turkey?" blurted Hen Dutcher, his eyes dancing with anticipated pleasure. "I didn't know you had any grub as fine as that."
"I've been thinking," proposed Prescott, "that we might as well have some of that turkey for breakfast this morning."
"Why, is it already cooked?" cried Hen.
"Oh, no," Dick admitted.
"Then let's have something else for breakfast and keep the turkey until noon," suggested Dutcher. "I can't wait for my breakfast."
"What do you fellows say?" asked Dick, putting it to a vote, but ignoring Hen. "Shall it be turkey for breakfast?"
"Turkey!" solemnly voted five Grammar School boys.
"I call it a shame to treat a fellow like this," grumbled Hen. "To make a fellow wait so long for his breakfast when he's starving to death!"
But none of the others gave any sign that they heard. Dick went to a shelf on which lay many packages of the food they had brought with them two days before. Dick took down a plain little wooden box and stepped to the table.
"Put on about eight eggs, and boil 'em hard, will you, Greg?" Dick asked. "Tom might tackle the coffee-making this morning. Dan and Harry can get potatoes ready."
"But where's the turkey, then?" queried Hen, watching Dick as he opened the box.
"Right here," proclaimed young Prescott, removing the lid.
"Why, that's—that's codfish, salted and dried!" exploded Hen.
"Well, isn't codfish Cape Cod turkey?" demanded Reade, with a grin.
"Is that the only kind of turkey you have with you?" asked Hen.
"The only kind," smiled Dick. "Don't you like codfish, Hen?"
"Not a little bit," grumbled Dutcher.
"Then you can cut out breakfast, and you'll have a fine appetite at noon," offered Dan consolingly.
"It seems to me that you fellows use me as meanly as you know how," flared Hen. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"We are," Tom assured the grumbler.
Though the codfish should have been soaked over night, Dick accomplished much the same effect by repeatedly scalding it. Then he put it on to cook in boiling water, and next made a flour sauce in the way that his mother had patiently taught him. The hard boiled eggs, after being cooled in cold water, were sliced up and put over the dish when it was ready. This, with potatoes, bread and butter and weak coffee with condensed milk, made a meal that satisfied all hands. Hen didn't like the meal, but he ate more of it than any one else.
"What are we going to do to-day for fun?" Dan wanted to know as breakfast drew to a close.
"Shovel paths and stock up with water and firewood, I guess," smiled Dick.
"Pshaw! I'm sorry it has to be all work, and that we can't have any fun," remarked Harry Hazelton. "I've just been longing to go hunting and get a rabbit for a stew."
"We'll be here for days and days yet," answered Dick. "I guess we'll be able to find plenty of fun before our camping frolic is over."
"It's fun, just being here and living this way," Darrin declared.
Something beat against one of the windows, causing the boys to look around curiously.
"Just a twig blown off from some tree," declared Tom.
"Is it?" floated back from Greg, who had leaped up and was now hurrying toward the window in question. "It's a pigeon—that's what it is. And the poor thing looks perishing, too."
In truth Mr. Pigeon did seem to be about spent. The poor thing huddled against the sash, as if trying to shelter itself from the biting wind and the fine dust of blown snow.
"Bring the tea-kettle, some one," called Greg, and Dick did so.
"Pour the water on so that I can get the window open," Greg directed. "Just enough to soften the ice so that the sash will move back. Be careful not to let any of the hot water scald the pigeon's feet."
Working gently, in order not to alarm the spent bird, Dick and Greg soon had the window open, and Greg drew in the all but frozen little flyer.
"Say, we can have pigeon stew, or pie, if anyone knows how to make a pie," cried Hen Dutcher.
"You scoundrel!" breathed Greg fiercely. "Your stomach makes a brute of you, Hen Dutcher!"
"Oh, what's the sense of being silly about nothing but just a bird?" insisted Hen.
"I'll fight any fellow who proposes eating this poor little wayfarer," announced Greg.
"Whatcher getting mad about?" snapped Hen. "Pigeons are made just for eating, and we can——"
"Hold this bird, Dan," urged Greg, passing the pigeon to Dalzell and stepping briskly toward Hen, who, alarmed, retreated, protesting:
"Huh! What are you getting red headed about? Can't you stand a joke?"
"I don't like your style of jokes," retorted Greg, stopping the pursuit. "Don't let me hear any more of 'em."
"In fact, Hen," added Tom, "your continued silence would be the finest thing you could do for us."
"See here!" called Dan. "This is one of our own pigeons—right out of dad's cote. This is the speckled one we call 'Tit-bit.'"
"Say, that seems almost like a letter from home, doesn't it?" asked Dick, his face beaming. "We'll give our friend the best we have. Put the little fellow in a box, in some soft stuff, not too close to the fire, Dan. And I'll start to boil some of the corn meal. That'll make good food for the little chap when he's feeling more like himself."
In less than half an hour Mr. Pigeon was feeling vastly better. He now hopped about the place, using his wings every now and then in a short flight. Dan was the only one who couldget near the little creature now. So it was Dalzell who caught the pigeon and fed it its breakfast of corn meal mush when it was ready.
Soon after the pigeon took to flying more and more. He seemed attracted towards the windows, flying straight at them three or four times.
"Your pigeon isn't showing good manners, Dan," teased Tom. "He is showing as plainly as possible that he doesn't like this crowd."
"Most likely it's Hen he objects to," murmured Dalzell, with a grin. "But I'll tell you what I think Tit-bit wants. He's warm, fed and feels as strong as ever. What he wants, now, is to hit up a pace for Gridley and get back into the cote with his mates."
"How long would it take him to get there?" wondered Tom.
"Why, something like ten or twelve minutes, probably," Dan answered.
"Whee! If we could make it that fast we'd be taking frequent trips," sighed Reade.
"I wouldn't make the trip more'n one way. I'd stay in Gridley after I got there," grumbled Hen, but no one paid any heed to him.
"See here," broke in Dick suddenly, "if that pigeon wants to go home, and is able to, why can't we make him take a message for us? I believe we can—if some one at the other end would only see it."
"Dad always looks the birds over when he feeds 'em in the morning," Dan declared.
"Wait until I get a piece of paper," rejoined Prescott, almost breathless from the hold the idea had taken on him. He got the paper, drew out a pencil, and sat down to write, calling off the words as he wrote them:
"To the home folks. We're all here at the cabin, snug as can be, with plenty of water, firewood and food, and having a jolly time. Don't worry about us. We're having a jolly time."
"Tell 'em I'm here," begged Hen Dutcher. "My folks might like to know."
So Dick added that information and signed his name. Next he rolled the paper up into a cylinder.
"Dan, catch that precious bird of yours," begged the young leader. Dalzell presently accomplished that purpose. Dick tied a string around the pigeon's neck, loosely enough not to choke the bird, and yet securely enough so that the noose could not slip off. Then the paper cylinder was made fast to the string.
"Open the window on the side towards Gridley, Greg," called Dick. "When it's open, Dan, you give your pigeon a start."
As Dan let go the bird fluttered from the sill to the snow. Then, after a moment, little Mr. Pigeon spread his wings and soared skyward.Soon the boys had seen the last of the small traveler, still headed in the direction of home.
"Our folks will soon have the news," declared Dan proudly.
"And, oh—hang it!" gasped Dick disgustedly. "I forgot to add even a word about Mr. Fits!"
"Well, he isn't here with us, at any rate," Dave answered.
"W
OW!Wow-ow-ow-oo-whoo-oo-oo!"
It would be impossible to convey the weird sound in words.
Six boys and a whiner were asleep in their bunks in the log cabin when that awesome sound first smote the air.
Outside the wind had nearly died down. Dick Prescott, the first to waken, felt a cold chill creep down his spine.
"Wow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!"
"Wh-wh-what is it?" gasped Dan Dalzell, sitting up in his bunk.
"I don't know," Dick admitted.
Again came the fearsome sound, now louder than ever. Dave Darrin and Tom Reade were now awake and startled.
"What on earth can it be?" demanded Tom.
"It must be Fred Ripley's ghost party," suggested Greg.
"Bosh! Fred Ripley would have to be a real ghost before he could get over the deep snow in the woods," Dick retorted.
Once more came the sound, more piercing than ever. Dick leaped from his bunk and began to dress. Dave and Greg followed suit.
"We'll do our best to find out what it is, fellows," Dick promised them.
Hen Dutcher was chattering and half sobbing.
"If I—I ever g-g-get out of this alive," he chattered, "I'll never stick around y-y-y-you fellows again. I was a f-f-f-fool to let you fellows coax me into staying here."
"Get out, then!" retorted Tom Reade half savagely, as he landed on the floor and began to dress. All were soon up except Hen, who, when a more dismal and bloodcurdling wail than ever came along, hid his head under one of the overcoats that covered him.
"It's a wild cat—that's what it is," declared Greg Holmes.
"Only one objection to that idea," returned Dick Prescott. "No one has ever heard of a wild cat in these parts in forty years."
"Then it's some one out perishing in the cold," suggested Dave.
"Whoever might be out in the cold wouldn't have much time to yell like that about it," argued Dick. "A wayfarer, out in the cold and deep snow to-night, would soon lie down and freeze to death."
But now something happened that made the blood of all the listeners run cold.
"Dea-ath sta-a-alks through the for-r-r-rest!" came the wailing chant.
"That must be the Ripley gang," contended Dick.
"But how can it be? How could they get through the deep snow that won't bear 'em?" Tom wanted to know.
"Then what can it be?"
"Mr. Fits," suggested Harry Hazelton.
"But Fits isn't in the shack, or wasn't," Dave argued. "We haven't seen him around, outdoors or in the shack, since the night we ordered him to go there. If Mr. Fits got away from this neighborhood it was simply impossible for him to get back since then."
"A-a-a-all who he-ear my voi-oi-oice shall die-ie within the hou-ou-our!" came the wail once more.
"O-o-o-h! Please don't!" screamed Hen Dutcher, burrowing in under the massed overcoats. "Please spare me! I'll be a good fellow after this!"
"Keep quiet!" ordered Tom, striding over to the bunk and giving Hen three or four vigorous prods. "If you don't we'll throw you outside!"
"But it's just aw-aw-aw-awful!" chattered the terrified Hen.
Truth to tell, none of the boys were feeling at his best, just then. Dick's glance passed the face of the clock, showing the hour to be just midnight.
Had it been possible to travel through the forest, the Grammar School boys would have felt sure that it was Fred Ripley's crew. Then they would have gone forth to see what was up. But feeling sure that they were the only living beings in this part of the forest, it was impossible to account for the awful sounds that came from without. What made the wailing sound still more frightful was the fact that it all seemed a part of the wind that was now rising gradually. And the clearly uttered, sepulchral words made it all real enough. The wind never talks in words.
Again came the wailing, though this time without words.
"I never believed there were such things as real ghosts," declared Harry Hazelton.
"Then you're a fool. Everybody knows that there are ghosts—and they're fine people that do noble work!" proclaimed chattering Henfrom under the weight of clothing. He was trying to win the favor of the ghosts.
"If there are any ghosts around here I wish one of 'em would pick you up in a sheet, take you away and drop you in your own home in Gridley," declared Tom, becoming decidedly irritated by this babyish imitation of a boy.
"Oh, please don't say that!" begged Hen piteously. "The ghost might hear you."
"If he does, and takes Tom's advice," hinted Dave, "we'll soon see it happen."
That was enough to send thirteen year old Hen burrowing more frantically than before.
The cabin was warm and bright inside. Dick, while trying to puzzle out the matter to his satisfaction, carried four more logs to the fire, one after another, and placed them.
Not one of the Grammar School boys had any desire to go to bed at that time, save Hen, who wouldn't dare to be anywhere else. In fact, the Dutcher youngster may have wondered whether he could stand on his feet if he slipped out and into his clothes.
One by one the boys found seats. Dan picked up the air rifle and sat with it across his lap.
"Whoever it is that's doing this trick has surely got us going," laughed Dick uneasily.
"He has," affirmed Dave. "I don't believe in ghosts, but, under the circumstances, this thingthat's annoying us is more than some creepy. If we could explain it I don't believe we'd let it worry us any. But I suppose human beings are always most afraid of what they cannot understand."
The wailings came at less frequent intervals now, though they continued to be sufficiently awesome. But when the clock showed two minutes before the hour of one in the morning these words came in a blast:
"The hou-ou-our of de-eath is at hand. The Gr-r-rim Rea-eaper is at the doo-oor!"
"Then please, please, please—GO AWAY!" screamed Hen, his teeth clacking a bone solo.