With the screech owl in Jack’s game-bag, the two boys continued on their way up the creek.
It was something to have bagged even the carnivorous bird, and they felt elated to think that at last something had appeared to be shot at.
By twelve o’clock they calculated that they were close on to two miles from camp. Each was hungry, and another halt was called for the purpose of eating the scanty lunch with which they had provided themselves before starting off.
“We must not go too far off,” said Harry. “For it will never do to attempt to remain away over night in this fearful storm.”
“That’s true,” returned Jack. “By three o’clock, game or no game, we will turn our faces homeward again.”
“If it would only stop snowing, it wouldn’t be so bad. But this storm is the worst I’ve seen in years!”
“It’s a corker, truly! But come on. Every minute counts now!”
Once more they pushed on, the snow swirling around their heads. Their legs ached, and it was an effort to make the smallest kind of progress. The cold, too, was intense, and at times seemed to strike into the very marrow of their bones.
By the time they had covered another mile they grew discouraged. Not the first sign of game of any kind had appeared.
“I move we leave the creek,” said Harry, at last. “We won’t go very far off, and we’ll locate the way so as not to get lost.”