And he had had a stroke of luck. A couple of partridges had flown up and perched stupidly on a log, so close to him that he had been able to knock one of them over with a cleverly thrown club.
In less than a minute that partridge's feathers were scattered on the snow, and it was cut up and roasting on sharp sticks before the fire. Too ravenous to wait until it was thoroughly cooked, the boys began to eat it, but Maurice made a wry face at his second mouthful.
"No salt!" he remarked.
The half-cooked flesh was nauseous without salt, and hungry though they were, they got it down with difficulty. It did them good, however, and they all felt more capable of facing the situation.
"The first thing we must do," said Peter, "is to find a better camping-place, put up some sort of shelter, and gather plenty of wood."
"Why, you don't expect to live like this long?" cried Fred, looking startled.
"It's hard to say. You know we're fearfully handicapped. Our only chance is to get those fellows off their guard, for if we strike once and fail, we'll probably never get another chance. We must lie low, and make them think that we've gone away, or that we're dead. We'll put our new camp half a mile away, or more, and one of us must keep watch near the cabin from sunrise to sunset."
It sounded disheartening, but they could think of no other plan. Eventually, Maurice went to stand guard, while Fred and Macgregor searched for a camp-site.
They could not find what they wanted. Dead timber in any quantity was scarce. At the end of a couple of hours Fred went to relieve Maurice, and found him walking round and round a tree in order to keep from freezing.
"I thought I might get a chance to collar the axe," said Maurice, with chattering teeth. "But they've carried it inside. They've taken in the rest of the venison, too, and they've even got the dogs inside the shanty. Afraid we'd shoot them, I suppose."