"I can't vos tell dot. Mebbe him peen long. Dem vos schmart togs, I tole you dot."
A pack containing food and blankets was hastily thrown together and strapped to the sled. Then Dick was assigned a place and Gus Schmidt hopped aboard.
"Of ve ton't got back tonight go on to Riss Rifer," he directed the others.
"Good-by, Dick, and good luck!" called out Sam, and Jack Wumble waved his hand.
"You take care of yourself, Sam," was the brother's parting caution.
The dog sleds had done some fairly fast traveling before, but the rate of speed now set by Gus Schmidt almost took away Dick's breath. On and on bounded the sled, the dogs yelping wildly at first, but then settling down to a steady pace. Up one hill awl down another they dashed, sending the loose snow flying in all directions. Soon the camp was left out of sight, even the smoke gradually disappearing from view.
Tom and his outfit were nowhere to be seen, having long since passed over a hill to the northward. Gus Schmidt had, however, noted the direction with care. He had noted, too, that the runaway had taken a somewhat curved course, and now he attempted to catch him by taking a straight route for the same point.
For over an hour the chase kept up, and then, reaching the top of a long hill, they saw, far to the northward, a dog sled moving to the eastward.
"I dink I got him now!" cried Gus Schmidt, and once more he cracked his long whip and again his team bounded forward. Quarter of an hour passed and they drew closer to the other team, and then both the German and Dick set up a cry of dismay.
It was not the sled on which Tom had run away. The dogs were different and on the sled sat two men, strangers.