The route lay along the shore and then across the lake to the mainland. They struck the shore at a point where the pines were heavy, and Joe Runnell showed the young hunters where the moose had stopped to feed.
“He’s after some tender bark,” said the old hunter. “See how he nosed around in the snow for it.”
After a brief rest they continued their journey, but night found the game still out of sight, and they had to go into camp in the best shelter they could find.
“Never mind,” said Harry. “A moose isn’t to be found here every day.”
“No, nor every week, either,” added old Runnell. “So far I haven’t heard of a single one being brought down this winter.”
They were up again before sunrise and following the tracks as before. These now led up a rise of ground and Joel Runnell went in advance.
“The tracks are getting fresher,” he announced. “I don’t think he’s a mile off at the most.”
They went on for a short distance farther, and then Joe put up his hand.
“Hark!” he said, in a low voice. “What sort of a noise is that?”
They listened, and from a distance heard a scraping and sawing that was most unusual.