“You can be thankful you didn’t break any bones, Joe,” returned his brother, tenderly.
A sling was made, and Joe was hoisted up by old Runnell and Fred, and then Harry came up, carrying the shotgun. By this time it was pitch-dark on all sides, and the snow was coming down thickly.
“It’s good we have the lantern,” observed Harry. “It is going to be no easy job getting back to the lodge.”
Joel Runnell led the way, and the boys followed, with Joe in the middle leaning on the others’ shoulders. Progress was slow, and it took the best part of an hour to reach Snow Lodge.
“Jumping bullfrogs! if I didn’t leave the door wide open!” cried Fred, in consternation.
“Well, we’ll forgive you this time,” laughed Joe Runnell. “But don’t let it happen again.”
The lodge was cold, but with the door shut tight and a good fire the temperature soon arose. Then Fred slipped down to the lake, and brought in the fish that had been caught.
“Not so bad,” said the old hunter, as he looked the catch over. “Reckon we’ll have enough to eat for a day or two.”
Before retiring that night Joe washed his bruises and bathed them with some arnica that was in the medicine case. This eased the wounds a great deal, and in a few days he felt as well as ever.
It snowed steadily the whole of the night, and toward morning the wind arose and sent the snow flying against the lodge until it was piled almost to the top of the door. The thermometer went down ten degrees, and all hands were glad enough to hug the fire.