"Hi—hi—hey! It's half-past nine; wake up! Hi—hi!"
Bob Somers uttered these words in a manner which made his companions hastily sit up.
"What's the use of making such an awful racket, Bob? I feel uncommonly sleepy," and the stout boy immediately sank back and closed his eyes.
Little Tom Clifton, however, hastily jumped to his feet.
"Had a dandy night, after all," he said, cheerfully. "Whew, but it's cold," he added, drawing back the canvas flap and peering out. "Those chaps are still asleep."
"Let's stir around and get the fire going, anyway," said Bob. "I'm more than ready for breakfast."
The fire-wood was almost expended, so the two boys got vigorously to work. The sound of their hatchets soon aroused the other occupants of the hut, who had gone to sleep again.
"Hello," said Nat. "I thought it was still last night."
"You mean to-morrow morning," put in Hackett. "My eye, it's nearly ten o'clock. Make that fire howl—will you, Somers? I hate to think of getting up."
"So do I," grinned Nat.
"You fellows talk so much I can't sleep," grumbled Dave.
"It's ten o'clock! Did you catch that?—t-e-n o'clock!"
"Wouldn't care if it was twelve," and Dave snuggled under the covers again.
In a short time, all but the stout boy had gathered around the fire, and it was not until another half hour had passed that he appeared, blinking and yawning.
"Thought you fellows might eat all the breakfast," he said.
"I'm sorry we didn't—so as to teach you a lesson," returned Bob.
When the meal was over, all hands set to work on the second hut, and when lunch time arrived, it was well under way.
In the early afternoon, Bob Somers, accompanied by Sam and Dick, set off. They ascended the hill, which was thickly wooded, making their way around the underbrush and huge snow-drifts.
At the top, they paused to look around. A succession of rolling hills stretched off to the limits of view. In the grip of the snow king, the country looked barren and wild. Here and there a tree higher than its neighbors outlined its black, gaunt limbs against the sky.
"Looks kind of desolate, eh?" remarked Bob, as they began descending a gentle incline.
"Don't make much noise, fellows," he cautioned, "or we'll scare the rabbits away."
"We ought to strike bigger game than that," said Sam; "and there's a hawk on the hunt for something, too."
He waved his hand toward a bird soaring far above.
Soon the base of the hill was reached, and they kept on through a thickly timbered valley.
"Rabbit tracks everywhere, yet we haven't had a glimpse of one," said Bob.
"It only needs a little patience. A good hunter always has that."
"Hello, there goes a rabbit!" sang out Dick, suddenly.
From behind a mass of bushes the animal leaped, then over a fallen tree to an open stretch, across which it dashed.
Dick quickly raised his gun. A sharp report rang out, and the rabbit fell in its tracks.
"Hurrah!" shouted Dick. "Not bad for the first crack."
Bang—bang!
Bob Somers and Sam Randall had fired almost simultaneously.
Another long-eared bunny fell a victim to their aim, while a third dashed off and disappeared in the bushes.
"And whopping big fellows, too," said Dick, enthusiastically, as he picked one up and held it aloft. "'Hatchet' brags so much about his shooting. He'll find that he isn't the only one."
A quarter of an hour more found the boys again ascending. Here and there, the ground was strewn with boulders of enormous size. Above them the rugged line of the hill was silhouetted against the clear blue sky.
As they toiled slowly up, a most unexpected and astonishing sight suddenly met the boys' gaze. It set their nerves tingling with excitement.
Not a hundred feet distant, at the top of the hill, there appeared a magnificent buck. For an instant, his dark, graceful form and spreading antlers were clearly defined. His head swung quickly around, then he wheeled about, and vanished on the other side before the surprised hunters could make a move.
"Did you ever see such a beauty?" exclaimed Dick, in great excitement.
"Let's make a sprint for it."
"If we could only get a shot at him," said Sam, longingly.
In headlong pursuit, at a speed which would have seemed impossible a few moments before, they dashed up the slope. Strategy, for the moment, was forgotten.
Breathing hard, the boys reached the place where the buck had been.
"Look at his tracks, fellows!" cried Bob. "He went off right toward those woods."
"We may get a shot at him yet."
"Don't believe there's any chance of it."
"Come on, anyway!" exclaimed Sam Randall.
The boys had no difficulty in following the tracks, but the sad realization that their efforts would lead to nothing soon forced itself upon them.
"I can't keep up this gait," gasped Sam, his tones evincing the greatest disappointment.
"Neither can I," said Bob.
"It's a little worse than missing a train," added Dick, dolefully.
"I should say so. Shall we keep up the chase?"
"If he has taken to the open, we might get a sight of him," replied Bob; "that is in the distance."
So the boys pushed on, the trail leading in and out among the trees. The woods grew more dense, and as there were no signs of its coming to an end, a halt was soon made.
"Have to leave it for another time, fellows," said Bob. "Wait until we get to hunting in earnest."
"A good rabbit stew just now would be better than a wild buck chase," grinned Sam, who had recovered from his disappointment. "Let's hurry back and start some cooking."
They had wandered further from camp than any had imagined, and all three were thoroughly tired and cold when the gray expanse of lake appeared in view. It was reached at a point much above their camping ground, and a long, weary walk ensued. The wind, too, had sprung up and blew in their faces with unpleasant force.
At length the boys rounded a hill and came in view of the camp.
"Hello!" said Bob. "It's deserted—fellows must be off on a hunt."
"Guess they're not very far away," put in Sam, as he slung his game-bag down in front of the hut.
"Say—somebody has been amusing himself," remarked Sam Randall, rather abruptly, pointing toward the base of the hill.
On the perfectly smooth blanket of snow, the boys saw a number of markings of such odd forms as to suggest Egyptian hieroglyphics.
"Perhaps Nat made them," observed Bob, breaking into a laugh.
The group walked toward the queer characters.
"Whoever did these must have puzzled his head trying to think up funny shapes," put in Sam, with a grin. "We'll find out who's responsible when the fellows get back."
The Ramblers had supper under way, when voices and the sound of feet crunching over the snow announced the return of the others.
"Any luck?" queried Bob. "We got a couple of rabbits."
"And I dropped a partridge," said Hackett, proudly exhibiting the bird. "A mighty hard shot it was, too."
"What did you get, Chubby?"
"Cold hands, cold feet, and an awful appetite."
"Hello, who's been scratching up the snow?" exclaimed Nat. "Did you do that, Somers?"
"No! We thought it was your work, Nat."
Nat grinned. "Don't try to tell me anything like that," he said. "They weren't there when we left camp."
"That's a sure thing," broke in Tom Clifton, earnestly.
"Honest, Bob—none of us were near that snow."
"Well, we didn't do it either;" and Bob spoke in such a tone as to leave no doubt of his sincerity.
"Who did it, then?"
There was an interval of silence, which John Hackett broke by remarking, "Those people across the lake may have come over and finding no one here thought they would amuse themselves a bit."
This seemed a perfectly reasonable solution of the matter, so the boys dismissed it from further consideration.
Twilight came, then night enveloped the scene. A moderate breeze fanned the fire, until huge, leaping tongues of flame sent out a glow of heat.
But even under these conditions it was not easy to keep warm. The boys stood with their backs to the fire, then faced it, then turned sideways, but always with that uncomfortable feeling of being roasted on one side, and, oh, so cold on the other.
"Never thought I had a chance to get that bird," Hackett was saying. "It was making a bee-line for the woods—you know how fast they fly—well, I just raised my gun, and—"
He was interrupted in a most startling fashion.
A snowball—nothing more or less than a nice, round snowball—made in the most approved schoolboy fashion, suddenly flew from out of the darkness and fell in their midst. It struck the ground and broke into a dozen fragments.
Then came another—and another. The coffee-pot, struck squarely in the centre, toppled over into the fire and poured forth its lamentations in a great cloud of hissing steam, while the boys looked at each other in the greatest wonder.