"Shut the door and bar it, please," chattered Dan Dalzell. "Whew, but having that door open has made this place a cold storage plant!"
"Fellows," spoke up Dick, "if this blizzard is to continue, we'll presently freeze to death in here unless we get more firewood while we can."
"All right," grinned Dalzell. "I've a suggestion, and it's a bully one. We'll appoint Hen Dutcher a committee of one on the woodpile. Go out and study your subject, Hen, and bring in your report—I mean, a cord of wood."
"No, you don't!" protested Hen sullenly.
"Get on, now! Beat your way to the wood pile," ordered Tom Reade.
"No slang, please," mocked Dave. "How can a fellow who's going to work hard beat his way, I'd like to know?"
"If you don't think you'd have to beat your way, to reach the wood pile to-night," retorted Tom, "then just go out again and face the wind and storm. Hen, are you going?"
"No, I'm not," snapped Dutcher.
"Then I'm a prophet," declared Reade solemnly. "I can see you and me having trouble."
"I won't go," cried Hen, with an ugly leer. "I know what you want to do. You want to drive me out to that shanty, so that big fellow will jump on me. Go yourself, Mr. Tom Reade."