It was a crisp November day, with a suggestion of more cold to come, and the first few flakes had been followed by others while the boys waited until Bart, whose hand was almost well again, got the runners from the cellar.
“Looks as if we’d have quite a storm,” remarked Jim Dodd, the driver of the express wagon, whom the boys had hired to take their stuff to a point about two miles inside the woods. The road, which was made by lumbermen, came to an end there. “Yes sir,” Jim went on, “it’s goin’ t’ be a good storm. You boys better stay home.”
“Not much!” cried Ned. “A storm is what we want.”
“I’d rather eat my Thanksgivin’ turkey in a warm kitchen than in an old tent,” Jim added with a laugh.
“Oh, we’ll be home for Thanksgiving,” Fenn said, “and we’ll have plenty of game to eat too.”
“Wish ye luck,” was Jim’s rejoinder.
The adjustable runners were packed on the wagon, a last look given to see that everything was in place, and then, about nine o’clock the start was made.
“Keep your thumb wrapped up!” Alice called after her brother. “Don’t take cold. Drink some hot ginger tea every night before you boys go to bed. Keep your coats well buttoned up around your throats, don’t get your feet wet and—”
“Say, give us the books, sis,” called Bart good-naturedly, “we can’t remember all that. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” called Alice, waving her hands to the chums.