“Well, it’s no credit to your uncle to stand in with him.”
“Of course it isn’t—and I’ll give Uncle Si a piece of my mind when I get the chance.”
“I don’t think you’re going to get to Lodgeport today.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter much. I don’t think there is any great hurry about this business. The matter has rested ever since father died.”
This talk took place outside the shelter, so Barwell Dawson did not hear it. Inside, the man dressed his ankle, while the boys cleared away the remains of the morning meal, and started the fire afresh with more pine sticks.
“We really ought to try to get out of here,” said Andy, after an hour had passed. “I think it will snow again by night, and it would be rough to be snow-bound in such a place as this.”
“I’d like to get out myself, but I am afraid I can’t walk,” said Barwell Dawson, with a sigh. “A bruised ankle is worse than a broken arm—when it comes to traveling,” he added, with a grim smile.
“Supposing we took turns at carrying you?” suggested Chet. “I think we could do it.”
“How far?”
“Well, we might try for a cabin that is about three-quarters of a mile from here. We’d be far more comfortable at the cabin than here,—and maybe you could get some liniment for your bruises.”