"Well, that settles it," said Addison. "They haven't gone to Adger's,
for that is east from here. I'll tell you! They went to Boundary Camp on
Lurvey's Stream. And that's eighteen or nineteen miles from here." He
glanced at the sky. "Now, what shall we do? It will snow to-night."
"Perhaps we could get up there by dark," said I.
For a moment Addison considered. "All right!" he exclaimed. "It's a long
jaunt. But come on!"
On we tramped again, following that will-o'-the-wisp of a hand-sled
track into the thick spruce forest. For the first nine or ten miles
everything went well; then one of the dangers of the great Maine woods
in winter suddenly presented itself.
About one o'clock it began to snow--little icy pellets that rattled down
through the tree tops like fine shot or sifted sand. The chill, damp
wind sighing drearily across the forest presaged a northeaster.
"We've got to hurry!" Addison said, glancing round.
We both struck into a trot and, with our eyes fastened to the trail, ran
on for about two miles until we came to a brook down in a gorge. By the
time we had crossed that the storm was upon us and the forest had taken
on the bewildering misty, gray look that even the most experienced
woodsman has reason to dread.
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