“It is dark,” replied Jack, “but by taking torches we can follow the footprints, I think. There is nothing else to do. We can’t go to bed without our blankets very well.”
“Come on, there is no time to lose,” urged Harry, and, hanging up their deer meat and the heads and antlers, they started off, each with a blazing pine knot held aloft of his head.
The track of the heavily-laden sled led across the creek, and off along the shore of Rock Island Lake. They counted the footsteps of three persons who had dragged the sled along. In several places the footsteps showed all around the sled.
“That is where they had to stop to secure the load,” remarked Harry. “I suppose they loaded so hastily that it kept slipping off. See, here is one of the tin plates.”
And he picked up the article from where it lay, half buried in the snow.
The plate was turned over to Pickles, and a sharp lookout was kept for more of their belongings, which resulted in the finding of another plate, two knives, a fork, and one small tin kettle.
“At this rate, we’ll find all of the stuff at the end of two or three miles,” observed Harry. “The careless, good-for-nothing fellows! how I would like to face them just now!”
And the look on his face showed that he was far from being in a pleasant humor.
About a mile from the creek the track turned directly toward the lake, and a hundred feet farther on was lost on the clear ice, the snow having been blown in patches by the high wind.
“Here’s a state of things!” grumbled Boxy. “We can’t follow that trail on the ice very well.”