"I got you into it. I'm sorry," the girl of the Red Mill said. "I thought it really was Maggie, or I wouldn't have come over here."
"She's something like that Maggie girl," proclaimed Helen. "She was nice, I thought."
"Maybe this girl is nice, taken under other circumstances," laughed Ruth. "I really would like to know what she is over here for."
"No good, I'll be bound," said the pessimistic Helen.
"And another thing," Ruth went on to say, as she and her chum reached the level of the frozen lake, "did you notice that pick handle?"
"That what?" demanded Helen, in amazement.
"Pickaxe handle—I believe it was," Ruth said thoughtfully. "It was thrust out of the snow pile she had scraped away from the boulder. And, moreover, the ground looked as though it had been dug into."
"Why, the ground is as hard as the rock itself," Helen cried. "There are six or eight inches of frost right now."
"I guess that's so," agreed Ruth. "Perhaps that's why she built such a big fire."
"What do you mean, Ruth Fielding?" cried her chum.