After this the sport continued steadily, until the young fishermen had fourteen fish to their credit. In the meantime it had grown quite dark, and the air was filled with softly falling snowflakes.
“I wonder if the others have got back to the lodge yet?” said Fred.
“It is not likely, Fred. That last shot we heard came from almost on top of the hill.”
“I hope they’ve had good luck. It looks now as if we wouldn’t be able to do much to-morrow.”
“Oh, this storm may not last. The wind isn’t in the right direction. We may—Hark!”
The boys stopped short in their talk, and both listened intently. From a distance they could hear a faint cry:
“Help! help!”
“It is Joe!” ejaculated Harry. “He is in trouble. We must go and see what is wrong!”
And throwing down his line and his fish he bounded in the direction of the cry for assistance, with Fred at his heels.