Pickles had not been idle. Water was boiling over the fire, and exactly five big potatoes—portion of the small mess brought along—were roasting in the ashes beneath. It was not long before the smell of newly made coffee and broiling squirrel filled the air.
A portion of the fire was dragged directly in front of the entrance to the hut, making the interior as warm as the kitchen of a house, and then the five sat down to a well-earned breakfast and dinner combined. That they enjoyed every mouthful goes without saying.
“Now, what’s the programme for to-day?” questioned Boxy, when he was about full.
“At first let us give Pickles a chance to clean up, while we finish work on the hut and build a regular fireplace,” returned Harry.
“That’s it,” added Jack. “Pickles can also tend to the animals we have killed, so they won’t spoil. The hut must be put into shape, so that it will stand the wind and any storm that may come along.”
“I don’t think we’ll get any more snow,” said Andy, but the others shook their heads.
It was no easy matter to start work in the deep snow which lay on all sides of the hut, but they went at it with a will, Boxy whistling cheerfully, and Pickles singing merrily as he washed the dishes and pots.
More poles and brush were cut, and Jack, who had seen the thing done by hunters along the coast, showed how the brush could be twisted, one branch into another, until the sides of the hut were as tight as a wicker basket. They were braced by the poles, and then banked up on the outside, first by more brush and leaves, and then by snow.
After the sides were finished, the roof was overhauled and made much tighter than before. The number of poles on the top were increased, until all was as solid as a city house.
“Now we’ve got a hut worth living in,” cried Harry, as he surveyed the work done. “That will stay there for several seasons if not torn down by human hands.”