“We’ll do the best we can,” Barry assured them. “I want to get to the post office at Fox Point and mail my letter to Dad. We won’t be here much longer.”
“No, we won’t, worse luck,” sighed Kent. “I’d like to stay right here until we do solve the mystery.”
“Looks like we aren’t going to,” Mac shook his head. “It gets deeper all the time.”
“Somebody has got to get more wood,” Tim called from the lean-to. “Who are the brave lads who will volunteer to chop or die for their native land?”
“I’m brave, but this isn’t my native land,” Barry grinned.
“You’d better do it, Tim,” Mac suggested. “You’re always carrying a little hatchet around in your belt.”
“That’s no hatchet, that happens to be an ax,” growled Tim. “I’m all set to cook breakfast, and as it is going to be a tough job to cut wood under the snow, I’m calling for volunteers!”
“He’s honest about it,” commented Barry. “It is hard work, so he wants somebody else to do it.”
“I’ll do the chopping,” Kent said suddenly. “Come on, Mac, you go with me.”
Mac stared at him suspiciously. “You seem mighty anxious. Where are you going to find a log to cut into?”