"We have a big job ahead of us," declared Bob Somers, when every scrap of food had vanished.
"I believe it," said Dave, with half closed eyes.
"The huts ought to be built before dark; it means a hustle."
"Build 'em, then, an'—" the stout boy was nodding.
"Hi, hi! Hey, bing, bang, boom—rah—rah! No sleeping yet, Chubby. Wake up!"
"Let a fellow alone, can't you? Build em—stop!"
"Oh, yes, we will leave you alone! Oh, yes—and two huts to build."
"Only five minutes," pleaded Dave. "I feel uncommonly sleepy. I do, indeed! Let up, won't you?"
"Very sorry, old boy," said Bob; "but we are going to clear away the fire and build it in another place. Better wake up and help in this job, or we may have a pretty rough night of it."
With a very great effort, Dave Brandon arose.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, with a prodigious yawn.
"Get the fire shoved over to this place I have marked," said Bob, indicating a spot about ten feet distant. "Just as soon as the ground is thawed, we'll have to dig four holes for the corner posts."
"Just think, we've got two of these old dens to build," grumbled John Hackett.
"Oh, never mind," said Nat. "I'm going to help, and we'll consider that it's a fine evening of sport."
Encouraged by these words, the tired boys set to work.
"In the first place, we'll need a lot of slender maples for the sides and roof," said Bob; "and any quantity of fir brush."
"I'm going to select trees for the posts," declared Sam Randall. "These huts are going to be built in a hurry, I can tell you that."
In a few moments, the sound of the young woodsmen's sturdy blows were being carried over the frosty air. As fast as the trees were felled, Tom Clifton trimmed off the branches. Then Dick Travers and Sam Randall began to gather the fir brush until an enormous pile was ready for use.
All hands worked steadily, in spite of their fatigue.
"On a camping trip, a fellow can't expect to stop just because he's tired," declared Bob; "he must be willing to work hard and run up against all kind of snags."
"You bet!" agreed Sam; "and getting half frozen, on a winter trip, and half starved besides."
"Guess we've got enough work to last till midnight," observed Dave Brandon, cheerfully.
"Is that ground getting thawed out?" inquired Bob.
"It's ready for anybody except the poet laureate to begin digging," laughed the other. "Start right in, Sam Randall, or it will get frozen up again."
"It's not going to be an easy job," said Bob. "We'll all take turns."
"And we don't want the huts to get bowled over by the first puff of wind," added Tommy Clifton.
"That's so, little one," said John Hackett, patronizingly; "I'll bet we strike some of the worst gales that were ever heard of. It's getting pretty brisk now, and we may be out in it until about three o'clock to-morrow morning. Give me a spade, and I'll show you something fast in the way of digging."
Hackett found that he was going to have a hard task to live up to his boast, but he stuck bravely at it, assisted by Bob Somers and Sam Randall.
"What comes next, Bob?" asked Tommy Clifton.
"I'll show you. First, I want four stout poles for the corners."
Bob Somers selected the heaviest maples, which had been cut to a suitable length. They were solid and heavy, and required the combined strength of several boys to lift into place.
"Ram them down as hard as possible," said Bob. "Then fill up the hole and bank them all around. Wet the earth as you pack it in. When it gets hard, it ought to hold like a vise."
"Well, it's going to hold that one, I can tell you," declared Sam Randall, as they lifted the first pole, and brought it down with a bang.
Hackett began to throw in the earth. "But it's fierce work, though," he grumbled; "and a lot more to do."
Bob laughed. "Stick it out, Hacky," he said; "you'll forget all about the backache by this time next week."
"It would be better to leave the other hut until to-morrow," suggested Nat. "We can all crowd into one—it's only for a night, you know."
"I guess that's the best plan."
"Won't it be awful cold in there, Bob?" asked Tom Clifton.
"Not when it's banked up with snow. The hardest part of the work is yet to come."
"You mean putting on the fir brush," spoke up Tom Clifton. "Oh, that's easy enough."
"Time to talk about that when the framework is up," said John Hackett, with a laugh. "Don't make a mistake and put the brush on first."
When the four posts had been planted, the rear ones being higher, so as to give the roof a slope, others were placed across the tops and securely fastened. This was done by means of nails and ropes.
"So much for that," said Bob, in a tone of satisfaction. "Now, a lot of poles must be placed about a foot apart all around the sides and on the roof. Pitch in, fellows—stick 'em up, and be sure to leave space enough for a door."
When the framework was completed, Bob and his assistants surveyed their handiwork with pride.
"Fir brush lies pretty flat," said Bob, at length. "Begin at the bottom, boys, and weave it between the poles. Then push it down as tight as possible."
"Correct," said Hackett. "Go up front."
The boys worked rapidly, packing the brush so closely that not a crevice was visible. It required patience, but the knowledge that it would be their only shelter for the night spurred them on. When the four walls were completed, they presented quite a substantial appearance.
"Looks great," commented Bob. "We'll have a fine camp. Better get some more brush; it takes a lot of it."
Dick Travers and Tom Clifton volunteered for the task, and work was resumed. Sam Randall and Hackett began to brace the sides with stout poles, and when this was done, they proceeded to bank the snow all around, beating it down with the backs of their shovels until it formed a compact mass.
Bob Somers and Nat, who insisted on helping, got on the roof, while Dave Brandon kept them well supplied with fir brush. The two worked with great care, beginning at the front, and being sure that each lot they put on overlapped that which was underneath.
"It will be a good, tight roof, Nat," remarked Bob, with satisfaction.
"And the snow around the sides ought to make it warm as toast."
"Rather have this than a ready made cabin any day—or night, either," grinned Nat. "There, Somers—when we make the roof a bit snug where it joins the wall, our work is done."
"And a good job, too," commented Dave Brandon from below.
All now began to assist in piling up the snow, notwithstanding the gathering gloom. But the twilight, ere long, had almost given way to darkness. The opposite shore of the lake was lost to view, while toward the west a sombre hillside rose against a greenish gray sky.
"Too dark to see," sang out Dick Travers, finally.
"We'll have supper, and put on a few finishing touches by firelight," said Bob.
"That's where you're right—no more work for me, until I get something to eat," added Dave. "It's another 'undeniable fact.'"
Fuel was heaped upon the fire, and cooking begun. Higher and higher rose the flames, lighting up in a fantastic fashion the group of boys, the snowy landscape and queer-looking hut in the foreground. Shadows danced and chased each other over the ground, light gleamed for an instant on distant objects, then vanished to sparkle again elsewhere.
Refreshed by supper, the boys piled several logs on the fire and resumed work, adding whatever they thought necessary to make their dwelling secure and tight. The door was closed by strips of heavy canvas.
"This is a neat job, Hacky," said Nat. "Don't know just what kind of architecture you'd call it—never saw anything quite so queer-looking in my life—but I'll bet it is going to be comfortable, and that's all we want."
It was not until after nine o'clock that the weary workers ceased their labors. But, despite aching arms and tired backs, each regarded the odd-shaped structure with much satisfaction.
"It would take one of Silas Riggs' blizzards to blow it over," remarked Sam Randall.
"And two of them to wake me up, to-night," yawned Dave.
"Let's throw a bit of brush inside, spread out blankets and turn in," said John Hackett.
"Tired out, Hacky?" laughed Nat.
"Of course not—nowhere near it. I'll bet I could give any fellow in the crowd fifty feet start and beat him across the lake," and Hackett's eyes sparkled with indignation at the thought of his endurance having been questioned.
The boys hung a lantern from the ceiling, and as the light revealed the cozy interior, broke into a hearty cheer.
"Not many could beat this job," declared Bob Somers; "eh, Chubby?"
"Say—but I am tired," was Dave's response. "Good thing we have sleeping-bags and plenty of blankets. Going to be a tight squeeze, though," he added.
"You take one-half of the hut, and the rest of us the other," said Bob, humorously. "Here's my place, right where I'm standing."
Rubber blankets were spread over the fragrant fir brush, the sleeping-bags were put on those, and one by one, the boys lay down. Soon there was silence, save for the fire, the glowing embers of which occasionally cracked with a sharp report.
But it was not for long. Bob sat up.
"Wow—say, fellows, I'm nearly frozen. Got a trunk load of blankets on, too."
"And I can't sleep for the cold, either," groaned Dave.
"It feels like the arctic regions," said Tom Clifton, in muffled tones. "My feet are like lumps of ice."
"And I'm nearly frozen," growled Hackett. "How about you, Nat?"
"Feel like a snow man—and that's no joke."
"Perhaps we'll get warm in a few minutes. Let's try it again," put in Sam.
The boys lay very still, and silence again reigned.
"Fellows, it's no use." Dave leaned on his elbow. "I—I can't sleep." His teeth were chattering.
"Nor I."
"What are we going to do? We haven't any more blankets."
"Yes—what are we going to do?"
Little Tom Clifton's voice was so despairing that the other boys broke into a hearty laugh.
"I think I know what's the matter," said Bob, suddenly. "We're a lot of dunces."
"Why—how?"
"The cold strikes up from the ground. No matter how much stuff we pile on top of us, we couldn't get warm. The brush beds ought to be about three times as thick."
"I believe you are right. I do hate to think of getting up—still—guess there's no help for it," and Dave, with many groans and sighs, eased himself to his feet, the others following.
The air outside was sharp and piercing, the stars shone with great brilliancy, and the landscape wore a dreary, desolate appearance.
With chattering teeth, the boys approached the big pile of fir brush which had been left over, and began to gather it up. Trip after trip they made, working swiftly, and occasionally stopping to swing their arms.
"That ought to do," said Bob, when the floor had been covered to a depth of a foot and a half.
"It will have to do."
"Will I ever be warm again?" sighed Tom Clifton.
They resumed their places, and again there was silence.
This time, their repose was not broken until the cheerful rays of the morning sun flooded the landscape.