"Can it be safe?" asked Sam. "Why, it wasn't frozen over four days ago!"
"We'll be careful," cried Wumble. "Even if it is hard enough, there may be airholes around."
The situation seemed to grow steadily worse. The wind blew so hard that at times they were fairly carried along by it. The snow cut off the view from all sides, so they could not determine in what direction they were traveling.
"Here's something ahead!" cried Wumble presently. "A hut—a miner's hut!"
"Let's get inside, just as quickly as we can," returned Sam, his teeth chattering. "I'm mo—most frozen stiff!"
The hut was on a small bank, evidently on the shore of the lake, or river, on which they had been traveling. It was closed up tightly, and a pounding on the door brought no response.
"Nobuddy home, I reckon," said Jack Wumble. "Well, here goes to git in," and he pushed on the door.
It was not locked and swung inward, revealing a single room, about twelve feet square and lit up by one small window. Opposite the door was a fireplace, partly filled with cold ashes. On a shelf and on a rude table rested some cooking utensils, and to one side of the hut was a bunk containing some pine tree boughs and several old blankets.
"Hello!" cried Dick. "Anybody in here?"
There was no answer, and a quick look around convinced them that nobody had been in the place for several days if not weeks. Yet on a shelf in a rude locker were a number of stores—beans, coffee, a side of bacon, and several other things.