“Hurrah! that’s a haul!” cried Harry, enthusiastically.
“What are they?” questioned Fred. “They look something like mink.”
“They are what we call mountain brook mink, Fred,” answered the old hunter. “The best kind to bring down, too, so far as the fur is concerned. Those furs are quite valuable, as you must know.”
“I know mink is valuable,” answered the stout youth. “My mother has a collar made of it.”
Having secured the game, they moved on once more. Joe was now slightly in advance and brought down a rabbit he saw scooting over the snow.
After this nothing was sighted for a long while. Then Fred, who was growing hungry, proposed that they stop for dinner.
The others were willing, and a halt was made in the shelter of some hemlock trees and elderberry bushes. Not far away was a hickory tree, and the wind-swept ground was full of nuts which even the squirrels had failed to carry off.
The stop lasted for fully an hour, and then, thoroughly rested, they pushed on. Only a few birds were sighted, however, and these were so far away that to bring any of them down proved impossible.
“There is Needle Rock,” said Joel Runnell, at last, and pointed out to where a rock arose about fifty feet from the lake shore. It was a tall, sharp-pointed affair, and the wind had swept it entirely free from snow.
“And where was that boat wrecked, do you think?” questioned Joe, with interest.