Jack consulted his watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. By a general vote the boys decided that no more sleep would be indulged in for that night.
“We can’t rest in the hut anyway,” said Andy. “All is in disorder, and some of the blankets are wet.”
“We will hang all the wet things around the campfire to dry,” said Jack. “And then we will see what we can do to repair damages.”
“And in the future we’ll be careful how we build our fires,” added Boxy. “Not so close to the hut, please, Pickles, after this.”
“Dat’s it!” cried the colored youth. “I dun reckon I’se ’sponsible fo’ dis muss,” he went on, soberly.
“We ought all of us to have known better,” said Harry, frankly. “In the future we must either keep the fire farther off or else somebody must sit up and watch it.”
The conflagration had destroyed the greater part of the snowhouse, and after the blankets had been hung up to dry, and the hut put in shape once more, they set to work to rebuild the tumbled-down walls. This was hard work, but it had to be done, so no one grumbled.
By daylight the camp was once more in shape, and the only evidence left of the fire was a few charred sticks and the long icicles which hung from the top of the hut and the branches of the trees.
“We can thank Providence for escaping with our lives,” remarked Jack, earnestly, as they sat down to a hastily-gotten breakfast. “If something hadn’t woke me up we might all of us been burnt to death while we slept.”
“It was truly a fortunate escape!” returned Harry.