"I'm coming!"
The next moment she seized somebody's gloved hand. "Oh, oh!" cried a shrill, terrified voice. "Who are you? Help me! I am freezing. can't walk—"
"Fred Hatfield!" gasped the amazed girl. "Is it you? What is the matter?"
"Take me to that house. I see the light, but I cannot reach it Help me, for God's sake!" cried the boy.
She could see his white, pinched face as he lay there more than half buried in the snow. His eyes were feverish and wild and he certainly did not know Ruth.
"Help me out! help me out!" he continued to beg. "My leg is caught."
But it was more weakness and exhaustion than aught else that held the boy in the drift, as Ruth very soon found out when she laid hold of his shoulders and exerted her strength. In a few moments, what with her pulling and his scrambling, the boy was out of the drift.
He had clung to the rifle—Tom Cameron's weapon, of course—and into his belt was stuck a knife and a camp hatchet.
"Why, how did you get here in this storm?" demanded Ruth, as he lay panting at her feet.
"I got lost—from my—my camp," he responded. "I'm frozen! I can't feel my feet at all—"