Paul went to the spring for water, while Dan kindled the fire. Paul was learning now to do his share of the camp work. He had become fairly adept in the use of the axe, and to pass the hours while Dan was absent on hunting expeditions, he had collected sufficient wood to last them for several days, and had cut the greater part of it into proper lengths for the stove.

When he returned with the kettle of water and placed it on the stove to heat for tea, he sat down in silent dejection. Starvation seemed very near. He was always hungry now—ravenously, fearfully hungry—and he could see no relief. Both he and Dan were visibly thinner than when they left the ship, and Paul was worried beyond expression.

Dan, squatting before the stove, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms locked around them, gazing intently at nothing, appeared not to notice Paul as he entered. He was evidently in deep thought, and Paul watched him anxiously, for he had learned that when Dan assumed this position he was making plans for the future.

Paul had grown to place great confidence in Dan and his plans. In fact he had come to look upon Dan as quite a wonderful person as well as true friend.

Never once had Dan admitted that he was greatly worried at the turn things had taken. On the contrary, while he had owned that their position was serious, he had always ended by assuring Paul that there was some way to overcome any difficulty which they might meet, and that they could find a way to do it, no matter how obscure the way might appear, if they but applied themselves earnestly to the task of searching it out.

Presently the kettle boiled, and as Dan arose to make the tea he remarked:

“They’s no knowin’ how fur ’tis t’ th’ nearest post, an’ I’m not knowin’ yet what’s best t’ do. Th’ river’s too big t’ ford, an’ if we goes afoot we’ll have t’ raft un, for with ice in th’ bight we can’t launch th’ boat.

“If we walks we can’t pack th’ tent or much of th’ outfit, you never done no packin’, an’ I’d have t’ carry most of what we’d be takin’. If’t were far, with other rivers we’d be like t’ meet an’ have t’ raft, th’ cold weather’d be on before we’d be gettin’ anywheres, an’ with no tent the things I’d carry wouldn’t be enough t’ do both of us.

“Th’ wind’s veered clean around from th’ nor’east t’ th’ s’uthard, an’ I’m thinkin’ she’ll veer t’ th’ west’ard in a day or so, an’ if she freshens up from th’ west’ard she’ll clear th’ ice out. Then we could be usin’ th’ boat, an’ cruise t’ th’ s’uthard till we finds th’ post or th’ ship picks us up. ’Tis too early for winter t’ be settin’ in t’ stay, an’ we’ll sure be findin’ ducks along th’ coast.”

“But we haven’t anything to eat. We’ll starve before that time.”

“I’m wonderful troubled about un,” admitted Dan. “They’s no danger of th’ tent blowin’ away, an’, with th’ ice on th’ coast, no chanst of th’ ship comin’, so I’m thinkin’ ’tis best for us both t’ go huntin’. They ain’t no use you stayin’ in camp. I’ll be showin’ you how to make rabbit snares while I hunts. With a bit of snow on th’ ground, an’ no wind, they’s more chanst of findin’ game.”

This was very agreeable to Paul. It would take him from the monotonous, lonely hours in camp, and he was eager to get away—to do something.

Their last half can of beans was divided between them for breakfast, and this disposed of, they prepared for a day’s hunt.

“Better take your shotgun instead of your rifle,” suggested Dan. “I’ll be takin’ my rifle, but ’tis easier t’ get birds on th’ wing with a shotgun. I been missin’ un most every day with th’ rifle.”

“You weren’t afraid to ask me for the shotgun, were you, Dan?”

“She’s so pretty I weren’t knowin’ as you’d like t’ lend un, an’ I takes my rifle hopin’ t’ get a long shot at a goose, or maybe a bear or deer. Don’t forget th’ shells for un.”

“Why, Dan, you could have had the shotgun. Just take any of my things when you need them.”

Dan carried the axe as well as his rifle, and set a good pace up the shore of the bight. Presently turning around a bluff they saw the forest reaching down to the ice-choked bight.

“’Tis there th’ river comes in,” remarked Dan.

“Don’t walk so fast, Dan. I’m most winded.”

“I weren’t walkin’ fast,” said Dan, slackening his pace, “but you ain’t been walkin’ none lately, an’ ’tis a bit hard until you gets used t’ un.”

Presently they reached the spruce forest and the river, and a little way up the timbered valley through which the river flowed found rabbit tracks in every direction in the light snow.

“They’s plenty of un here,” remarked Dan. “Now here’s a run—that’s a trail they takes reg’lar back and forth. We’ll be settin’ a snare in un.”

Dan cut a spruce sapling and laid it across, and supported a foot above, the run by brush growth on either side, first trimming the branches off the side of the sapling placed downward, that they might not obstruct the run. He then placed an upright stick on either side of the run and about five inches from it, leaving an opening about ten inches wide between the sticks, with the run passing through the center. Then he blocked the space along the sapling on each side of this opening with brush, remarking:

“That’s t’ keep th’ rabbits from leavin’ th’ run.”

He now produced a hank of heavy, smooth twine, cut off a piece and on one end of it made a slip-noose that would work easily. The other end he tied securely to the sapling directly over the run, first spreading the noose wide, until the bottom swung about three inches from the ground, the sides touched the upright sticks on either side, and the top hung just below the sapling. Small twigs, so placed as not to obstruct the opening in the noose, were stuck in the ground at the bottom and on the sides to keep it in position.

“’Tis poor string for snarin’,” he said, contemplating his work, “but ’tis all I has, an’ ’twill have to do. Wire’s better’n string. Rabbits eats string off if ’tain’t set just right t’ choke ’em so’s they can’t.”

“Will that catch rabbits?” Paul asked incredulously.

“Yes, that’ll catch un. You see, they comes along th’ run, an’ when they tries t’ jump through th’ noose she just slips up around their necks and chokes un. Now you can be settin’ snares, an’ I looks for pa’tridges.”

“Where’ll I set ’em? Anywhere around?”

“Anywheres you finds runs. Work up through th’ timber an’ don’t lose sight o’ th’ river. Mark th’ places where you sets un by blazin’ a tree clost by un, like this,” and as high as he could conveniently reach with the axe, Dan chipped a piece of bark as big as his hand from either side of a tree, where the white bared wood could be readily seen by one following up or down the river.

“I’ll take th’ shotgun an’ leave my rifle with you. ’Twill be easier t’ get pa’tridges with th’ shotgun, an’ I sees any.”

“Will you come back here for me?”

“Yes, I’ll be lookin’ you up,” and Dan strode away.

Setting snares was a novel occupation for Paul, and he found the work intensely interesting. Upon every new run that he discovered he duplicated as exactly and as carefully as possible the snare that Dan had set, and then blazed a tree to mark its position.

He was thinking now constantly of good things to eat, and feasts that he would have when he reached home. This kept his mind occupied with pleasant thoughts while his hands were at work.

Several hours had passed, several snares had been set, and he was still busily engaged when Dan, right at his elbow, said:

“Feelin’ hungry?”

“Oh!” and Paul jumped. “Dan, I didn’t see you. You frightened me.”

Dan laughed.

“See what I’m gettin’,” and he held up seven fat ptarmigans.

“Oh, Dan, but that’s fine!” exclaimed Paul, handling the birds caressingly.

“Let’s put on a fire an’ have a snack,” said Dan. “Seems like I can’t walk no farther till I eats.”

Dan collected some small dry twigs and a handful of the dry moss which in northern forests collects beneath the limbs of spruce trees. With his foot he scraped the snow from a small area, baring the ground. In the center of this he placed the moss, arranged the sticks about it with much care, struck a match to the moss, and in an incredibly short time had a cheery fire blazing.

“Break some boughs for a seat, Paul, while I plucks th’ pa’tridges,” he suggested.

Two of the birds were quickly plucked and drawn, Dan placing the entrails carefully aside on clean snow. Then he cut two dead sticks a couple of feet in length, sharpened them at each end, impaled a ptarmigan on each, and stuck the other sharpened end of the sticks in the ground in such position that the birds were near enough to the fire to broil without burning.

“’Tis wonderful extravagant for each of us t’ be eatin’ a whole pa’tridge,” said he, as he sat down upon the seat of boughs Paul had provided, “but we ain’t been eatin’ much lately, an’ I finds myself gettin’ weak, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll be hungry yet after we eats un, for one pa’tridge with nothin’ t’ go with un ain’t much.”

“I feel as though I could eat both of them myself. I wonder if I’ll ever get enough to eat again,” said Paul. “I’ve been planning the things I’m going to eat when I get home.”

While Dan turned the birds now and again they planned feasts and talked of good things they had eaten and longed to eat again, until Dan finally announced:

“Well, they’s done.”

“It was just enough to make me hungrier,” declared Paul when the last morsel had been eaten, even to the tender bones, and thoroughly enjoyed, though they had no salt for seasoning.

Dan reached over for the entrails, wound one upon the end of each stick, and, handing Paul one of the sticks, began to broil his own over the coals.

“What you going to do with them?” asked Paul.

“Eat ’em,” announced Dan. “You remember th’ way th’ huskies done? I’m thinkin’ if they’s good for huskies they’s good for us.”

“I don’t know,” said Paul, hesitating. Then like one plunging into a cold bath he followed Dan’s example, remarking, as he watched the swelling, sputtering things: “It’s funny the way people change. When I saw the Eskimos eat them I thought it was a terrible thing to do, but it doesn’t seem so bad now.”

“Dad says folks can eat most anything if they’s hungry enough.”

“I guess he’s right.”

“They’re not so bad,” said Dan, tasting an end of his.

“They’re really pretty good,” asserted Paul, gingerly taking a mouthful.

“I was thinkin’ we better not waste un. We’ll have t’ save th’ little grub we has in th’ tent for a time when we’ll need un more, an’ be livin’ now on what we kills.”

It was a day of good fortune. On their return to camp they made a wide detour, exploring a section that Dan had not yet visited, and suddenly, while skirting a marsh in the center of which was a pond, Dan grabbed Paul by the arm.

“Geese!” he exclaimed.

The pond was discovered to be a widening of a brook, flowing to the southward to join their river.

“Now we’ll crawl up along th’ willow brush, an’ don’t be shootin’ till I says to,” directed Dan. “When I says ‘shoot,’ take th’ nighest one with one barrel an’ th’ next nighest with t’ other barrel, an’ be steady, fer ’t means grub. I’ll give ’em bullets with th’ rifle.”

Cautiously and silently they crawled foot by foot along the lee of the willow bushes that lined the brook. Once Paul inadvertently broke a twig and an old gander held up his head in alarm. They threw themselves flat and lay like logs in the snow until the gander assuming that he was mistaken in his premonition of danger, resumed feeding. It was a moment of intense excitement for the young hunters.

“Now,” whispered Dan, when they had at length come abreast of the geese, “an’ be careful.”

Slowly they brought their guns to their shoulders, still lying flat on the ground, and fired.

Instantly there was a great commotion among the geese, which, instead of rising and flying away, half ran on the surface of the water, flapping their wings to help them in their retreat.

The guns rang out again. Before Paul, in his excitement, could reload, the game was quite out of range of his shotgun, but Dan with his rifle fired several more shots after the retreating birds.

Five geese lay upon the water when the fusillade was over, and the boys hugged each other in an ecstasy of delight.

“How’ll we get them? They’re away out in deep water,” asked Paul.

“I’ll get un,” said Dan, beginning to undress, “I’ll go in for un.”

“Let me do it, Dan,” suggested Paul. “You do all the hard and disagreeable work.”

“Oh, I don’t mind goin’ in. ’Tain’t so cold,” declared Dan, who was now stripped, and plunged fearlessly into the icy water.

It was but a moment’s work to secure the geese, and Dan, standing barefooted in the snow, donned his clothes as quickly as possible, declaring the moment he was dressed that he “felt fine and warm.”

“What luck!” exclaimed Paul, lifting goose after goose to test its weight. “We’ve got enough to last us a whole week.”

“’Tis not luck,” remonstrated Dan, who never admitted that anything came by mere luck. “Th’ Lord were skimpin’ our grub so’s we’d be careful of what we gets when we gets un, an’ then He sends along th’ pa’tridges an’ geese. Dad says ’tis th’ Lord’s way, when a feller’s doin’ all he kin for hisself.”

“Anyhow we got the geese.”

The boys were in position to live very well now. They had no bread, for scarcely enough flour remained for one meal, and this little flour and a small bit of bacon were all that was left, save tea and salt, of the provisions they had brought from the ship.

The morning after the goose hunt two rabbits were found in Paul’s snares and he was greatly elated at his success, and on the same day several ptarmigans and a black duck were killed by Dan, materially increasing their stock of provisions.

Then came a night of rain, and another morning found the land washed clear of snow. The sky had cleared, and a strong, steady breeze sprang up from the westward, as Dan had prophesied it would. Gradually under this influence the ice pack began to loosen and move seaward.

The boys returned early from their hunting trips on succeeding days that Dan might devote the afternoons to repairs on the boat, that it might be made as seaworthy as possible. The repairs completed, he fitted a mast forward, and with the light tarpaulin improvised a sail. He also provided a long stiff oar, which he fashioned with the axe, explaining to Paul that it was to be used in the stern to propel and steer the boat at times when the wind failed them, just as he had used the small oar when they went ashore from the ice pan.

Gradually Paul had learned to cook their simple meals of game. He assumed this responsibility, provided fuel and attended to the general camp duties, not only that Dan might be free during daylight hours to devote his undivided attention to preparations for departure, but because he wished to feel that he, too, was doing his full share of the work.

The weather had settled. By day the sun shone brilliantly, by night the stars and aurora lighted the heavens. The ice continued to move. The bight was soon quite free from it, and at length the sea itself was so little obstructed that one day Dan announced it quite safe to begin their voyage of exploration to the southward.

Preparations for departure had curtailed their hunting hours, but nevertheless they had four full days’ provisions when they broke camp and set sail in their frail craft. The wind was fair, and it was a beautiful, perfect morning. Their hearts were full of hope and expectancy, though they knew much less of the surrounding sea and dismal coast than did Henry Hudson, the great explorer, when he was set adrift upon the same waters by a mutinous crew nearly three hundred years before.