An hour after noon they had gone out to clear a path to the stable, a heavy task in snow that had drifted six and seven feet high wherever shelter offered. Nicholas, running about them, floundered shoulder deep in even the open places and more than once succeeded in burying himself entirely.
“Hugh,” said Dick at last—he had been leaning on his shovel and staring across the ravine—“I wish you would look over there at the pirates’ cabin and tell me what you see.”
Hugh turned to look as he was bid, yet for a moment saw only the half-buried shack and the group of pointed, snow-covered pines behind it.
“I don’t see anything,” he answered. “What do you think is there?”
“Come over by me so that the chimney is in line with those trees. Don’t you see now, something fluttering on a pole?”
Hugh came close and looked again, long and carefully.
“Why, they have a flag flying,” he exclaimed at last, “and, Dick, it’s a white one!”
“That’s it,” cried Dick excitedly. “I thought I saw it this morning, but with the sun in our eyes I couldn’t make it out. It is plain enough now; it looks as though they wanted help.”
“They deserve to get it, don’t they?” commented Hugh bitterly, digging his shovel very deep into the snow.
They finished clearing the path in silence, then walked slowly back to the cottage. They sat before the fire for a little, each deep in the same thought.