“Indeed! I am sorry to hear it. And your mother?”
“She is dead, too.”
“Then you are alone in the world? Do you live near?”
“I live two miles from Pine Run, with an uncle. It was I who told you how to get to Moose Ridge, when you were driving on the wrong road.”
“Oh, yes, I thought I had seen you somewhere.”
Here the conversation lapsed, for Barwell Dawson was still weak. He lay back and closed his eyes, and the boys did not disturb him.
It continued to snow, until the fresh fall covered the old to the depth of several inches. The boys kept the campfire going, and cooked such game as they had brought along.
“We are booked to stay here for a while, that’s certain,” observed Chet. “No Lodgeport today.”
After a while Barwell Dawson sat up again, and gladly partook of the food offered to him. His injuries consisted of a hard shaking up, a bruised ankle, and several cuts on his head.
“I am thankful that no bones are broken, and that I did not get killed,” he said, and then he requested them to give the details of the rescue from the ledge. The boys related their story, to which he listened closely.