“We’d better open th’ outfit up, an’ let th’ wind be dryin’ un while we hunts grub,” suggested Dan, as he unfolded a blanket and proceeded to spread it upon the ground, after they had made a brief survey of their immediate surroundings.

“I’m so dead hungry and empty I can hardly move,” said Paul, sitting impotently on a rock. “I feel weak, too. The scare, and pulling on the boat, just about knocked the ginger out of me.”

“We’ll be findin’ timber clost by, an’ they’s a good chanst t’ kill some grub before night. ’T ain’t noon yet. We’ll start soon’s we get th’ things spread, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll be good an’ snug by night,” encouraged Dan.

“It’s all my fault that we ever got into this scrape, Dan,” Paul remarked dejectedly, as he arose to assist in unpacking the wet things. “If I’d listened to you, and done as I promised, we’d have been safe on the ship now, instead of starving to death out here.”

“They’s no tellin’,” Dan consoled. “I’m thinkin’ ’twould have been the same anyhow. Maybe ’twas meant we be goin’ adrift. Leastways ’tain’t no use botherin’ about un now. Dad say what’s done is done, an’ ’tain’t no use botherin’ our heads about a thing after she’s done an’ past. What’s past might as well be forgot. Dad says ’tain’t what was, but what is, as counts. He says: ‘If you weren’t doin’ things right yesterday, ’tain’t goin’ t’ help none t’ bother about un t’day, but just do th’ things you has to do t’day right, an’ do un th’ best un can, an’ what you weren’t doin’ right yesterday won’t count ag’in you.’”

“Maybe you’re right, Dan, and I may as well quit worrying about it. One thing’s certain. When I promise to do anything at a certain time again, I’m going to do it. And I’m going to do the best I can now, and stop complaining. I wish I could do things as well as you do. You know how to do everything.”

“They’s a wonderful lot o’ things I’m not knowin’ how t’ do. I’m knowin’ how t’ sail a boat an’ do things around camp, because I always had t’ do un. ’Twon’t be long till you knows how t’ do un too, an’ then you’ll know a lot more ’n I do. Where you lives you had t’ learn t’ do other kinds o’ things, an’ them things you knows how t’ do I don’t know nothin’ about. Dad says learnin’ t’ do things is like plants growin’. ‘If you plants a turnip seed t’day,’ says he, ‘you can’t pull a turnip from un th’ same day. Th’ turnip’s got t’ have time t’ grow after th’ seed’s planted, an’ you can’t learn t’ do things what’s worth knowin’ how t’ do,’ says he, ‘in one day. You got t’ keep learnin’ a little about un every day till you learns how t’ do un.’ You learn about doin’ things in camp wonderful quick, Paul.”

“Thank you, Dan. You always encourage me. I’d have given up long ago if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You’d have been findin’ out how t’ do things. You got a rare lot o’ pluck.”

By this time the things were spread where wind and sun could dry them, with boulders placed upon them as a precaution against the wind carrying them away.

“Now,” said Dan, shouldering his rifle, “we’ll be goin’. ’Twill be best t’ bring your shotgun an’ plenty o’ shells, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll find grub, an’ be feelin’ better when we makes camp this evenin’.”

Three quarters of a mile inland lay a ridge of low, barren hills. Dan, in the lead, directed their course toward it, and set a good pace, with Paul, who was learning the trick of walking over rough, untrailed country with less effort than formerly, close at his heels.

Paul bore small resemblance now to the sallow, listless youth who in July climbed the ladder to the deck of the North Star, lying in Sydney harbor. His face was brown and ruddy, his eyes bright, his limbs lithe, his step springy, and he had grown eager and alert. Both he and Dan were, however, now conscious of a growing weakness, the natural result of insufficient food for several days, and particularly due to their unbroken fast of several hours.

At the foot of the ridge they encountered a growth of straggling spruce brush. Above the brush, near the summit, the hills were of a reddish hue, in marked contrast to the surrounding gray. This red coloring, they presently discovered upon ascending the ridge, was given the hills by masses of red berries, half the size of ordinary cranberries but resembling them in flavor and appearance.

The wind swept the ridge with terrific fury, and was very cold, but they fell upon their knees, uncomfortable as it was, and partially satisfied their hunger with the fruit.

“They ain’t so bad,” remarked Dan, “but they’s so sour I’m thinkin’ we better not eat too many t’ onct.”

“They are pretty sour,” admitted Paul, reluctantly rising to follow Dan, “but they taste mighty good.”

“If we don’t kill nothin’ we can eat more of un when we comes back. But I’m thinkin’ we’ll find pa’tridges along here, feedin’ on un. Pa’tridges is wonderful fond o’ berries, an’ they’ll not be missin’ a feedin’ ground like this. Th’ kind that takes t’ th’ hills is bigger’n better’n them that sticks t’ th’ willers. They both turns white in winter, an’ they’s both better ’n th’ spruce pa’tridges that sticks t’ th’ spruce timber.”

“Maybe you better take the shotgun, Dan. You can shoot quicker than I can, and if we see any partridges we’ve just got to get them.”

“You shoots fine, but I knows better how t’ look for th’ pa’tridges, an’ I’ll take un. With th’ wind they’s like t’ be wonderful wild.”

Dan passed his light rifle over to Paul, and with Paul’s shotgun proceeded to the top of the ridge, keeping a careful lookout, as he walked, while Paul followed a little distance in the rear. On the summit Dan halted until Paul joined him.

“’Tis fine,” said Dan; “look now.”

Below them lay a wooded valley, the green spruce trees splotched with golden yellow patches, where groves of tamaracks had taken on their autumnal coloring. To the westward a small lake shimmered in the sunlight, and leading to the southward from it could be traced the winding course of a creek which was presently lost among barren hills beyond.

“Isn’t it fine!” exclaimed Paul.

“An’ ’tis like t’ be a game country.”

“Oh, I hope so!”

“Now I’ll be leadin’ ag’in, an’ you follows a bit behind.”

A little way down the slope Dan stopped again, and when Paul overtook him, pointed to the berries at his feet.

“See th’ signs? They’s been feedin’ right here. Just over there they been wallerin’ in th’ sand.”

He went forward again noiselessly, carefully scanning the receding slope ahead. Presently he began a more cautious advance, halting now and again and then advancing.

All at once, quick as a flash he threw the gun to his shoulder and fired—bang! bang!—both barrels almost as one. Quickly he dropped two fresh shells in the gun, and running forward fired both barrels again. As he did so a great flock of ptarmigans, with a noise like the wind, rose and flew far away, apparently alighting at the edge of the timber below them.

Paul hurried down to Dan, who was gathering up the fruits of his hunt. There were eleven fat birds, now nearly white, in their winter dress.

Paul, in happy thankfulness, could scarcely control his emotion.

“It seems almost too good to be true, Dan!” he said finally.

“I finds un fine too,” admitted Dan. “They was wonderful tame for a windy day, an’ just runs instead of flyin’ after I fires th’ first shots. That gives me time t’ load an’ shoot ag’in.”

“But how did you get so many with just four shots? Oh, Dan, I believe it’s just as you always say; it was Providence sent us here and let you get so many.”

“’Twere that. On th’ ground I lines ’em up, an’ knocks over two or three to a shot, except th’ last shots, when they flies away, I only gets one on th’ wing. ’Tis hard t’ get more ’n one when they’s flyin’. Th’ Lord just kept ’em on th’ ground!”

“And now we can eat again!” exclaimed Paul.

“Yes, an’ th’ finest kind o’ eatin’ too. I’ll be lookin’ for th’ flock, where they flies to, an’ try for another shot, while you plucks two, an’ cooks un,” suggested Dan, and when they reached the edge of the timber he directed:

“Go straight in here till you comes t’ th’ creek, an’ put on your fire there, an’ I’ll be findin’ you.”

Entering the timber, Paul found himself sheltered from the wind, in pleasant contrast to the open hills. Scarcely two hundred yards from where he parted from Dan he came upon the creek. Though he had no axe he made his fire without difficulty, profiting by the wood lore learned from Dan. He had also learned the knack of plucking birds quickly, and in a little while had the two ptarmigans, impaled upon sticks, broiling before the blaze, while he basked in the warmth, and filled in his time plucking the remaining birds.

Dan had not yet put in his appearance when Paul decided that the ptarmigans were quite done. He removed them from the fire, and with a strong exercise of self-restraint waited for Dan to join him in the repast. Presently, however, hunger got the better of him.

“There isn’t any use waiting for Dan,” he finally said to himself. “I simply can’t stand it another minute,” and he ate one of the birds with a relish beyond anything, he thought, that he had ever before experienced. The temptation to eat the other was very strong but he turned his back upon it, and, lying down, was presently dozing.

How long he had been asleep he did not know, but at length he opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake, with a consciousness that something was watching him. The fire had died to smouldering coals, and he was cold, but fear of the watcher impelled him to remain motionless and still, while he peered into the shadow of the timber.

Presently he discovered in a clump of bushes on the opposite side of the creek a pair of glowing amber-green eyes. They were malicious, piercing eyes, and Paul’s heart stood still for a moment. Then he remembered what Dan had often told him: “They ain’t nothin’ in this country t’ be scared of unless you comes on a big pack o’ wolves, an’ they’s mostly cowards,” and his courage returned.

Very cautiously he reached for Dan’s rifle, and with exceeding care sighted it upon a spot just between the glistening eyes. Then steadying his nerves, and holding his breath for an instant, he fired.

Simultaneously with the explosion something sprang into the air and then fell back upon the ground. Whatever the thing was, he had hit it. Highly excited, he dropped the rifle, and regardless of the icy waters forded the creek, dashed up the opposite bank, and without doubt that the animal was quite dead, ran directly in, incautiously, toward the clump of bushes where it had fallen.

Suddenly, when less than ten feet from the bushes, a great snarling, malevolent cat-like beast appeared at the edge of the cover, directly before him.

Paul stopped, stupefied at the unexpected appearance. The animal crouched for a spring. It was too late to retreat. Paul’s heart stood still. A cold chill ran up his spine. He had left his rifle at the fire, and was quite defenseless, save for the hunting knife at his belt. He grabbed the knife, and as the beast leaped toward him instinctively threw up his arms to guard his face.

Its fore paws landed squarely upon his shoulders. With one hand he grasped its throat, and with a tremendous, unnatural strength pushed it from him, while with the other hand he slashed blindly with his knife at its body. He could feel its sharp claws tearing his flesh. Then the earth began to reel, darkness came, and he fell unconscious.

He could feel its sharp claws tearing his flesh