“Bert! George! Quick, wing ’em!”
George was quicker than his companion. Up to his shoulder went his weapon and the woods echoed to the shot that followed.
“You got him!” cried Bert, as he saw a bird flutter to the snow. Bert himself fired at the second partridge, and had the satisfaction of knocking off a few feathers, but that was all. But George, who had not thought to fire his second barrel, ran forward and picked up the bird he had bagged. It was a plump partridge.
“That will make part of our meal to-morrow,” he said, proudly, as he put it in the game bag Tom carried.
“Say, we’ve struck a good spot all right!” exclaimed Jack. “It’s up to us now, Tom, to do something.”
“That’s what it is,” agreed his chum.
But if they expected to have a succession and continuation of that good luck they were disappointed, for they tramped on for about three miles more without seeing anything.
“Better not go too far,” advised Tom. “Remember that we’ve got to walk back again, and it gets dark early at this season.”
“Let’s eat grub here and then bear off to the left,” suggested Jack.
They had brought some sandwiches with them, and also a coffee pot and tin cups. They found a sheltered spot, and made a fire, boiling the coffee which they drank as they munched their sandwiches.