“Well, we sure have got to do something,” Tom said, and it was not the first time, either. “We’ll try each direction, fellows, and see where we come out. We may have to go the limit, and tramp a bit in each of four directions, and, again, it may be our luck to do it the first shot. But let’s get into action. It’s cold standing still.”
They had given up all hope of game now. Indeed, the snow was falling so thickly that they could not have seen a deer or bear until they were very close to it—too close it would be, in the case of the bear.
As for smaller game—rabbits, squirrels and partridges, none of those were to be seen. The snow had driven the smaller animals and the birds to cover.
“Bur-r-r-r-r! But this is no fun, on an empty stomach,” grumbled George, as he followed the others. The dog, having seen his friends start off, was following them. He seemed to have no sense of responsibility that he was expected to lead his friends in the right direction. “I sure am hungry!” George went on.
“Quit talking about it,” urged Tom. “That doesn’t do any good, and it makes all of us feel badly. Have a snow sandwich!”
“It makes you too thirsty,” interposed Jack. “If you want to drink, we’ll stop, make a fire of some fir branches, and melt snow in our tin coffee cups. If you start chewing flakes, you’ll get a sore mouth, and other things will happen to you. That’s what a fellow wrote in a book on Arctic travel.”
“If only we hadn’t eaten all the grub!” sighed Bert.
“Too late to think of that now,” Tom spoke. “Come on—let’s hike!”
Off they started. They decided to make an effort in each of the four cardinal points, first selecting that which one of the boys declared led back to Camp No. 2.
“If we go on for a mile or two, and find we’re wrong again, back we come and try the other side,” Tom explained. “But I can’t see why that sign says seven miles to Ramsen, when the road is so easy to lose yourself on.”