“We wouldn’t have stayed home on that account,” George asserted. “We’re all in the same boat together, and we’ll have to sink or swim—or skate,” he added, as the icy wind smote him.
It was now about six o’clock, but as dark as it would have been at midnight. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, but of course the white snow made it lighter than otherwise would have been the case. But in the dense woods even this did not add much to the comfort of our friends, and its increasing depth made it harder to walk.
Almost before the boys knew it, they had emerged from the forest to a road. They could tell that at once.
“Hurray!” cried Tom. “Now we’ll be all right. A good road to follow.”
“And a signpost, too, to tell us which way to go!” added Jack.
He pointed through the storm to where was evidently a crossroad, at the intersection of which was a post with the familiar boards on it.
“What does it say?” asked Bert, as Tom stood at the foot of it.
“Have to get out the electric light,” Tom said, producing a pocket flashlight. By its powerful tungsten gleam, he read:
Seven Miles to Ramsen
“That’s the ticket!” he cried. “Ramsen is the way we want to go. Camp No. 3 lies in that direction. Now we’re all right, boys!”