"Fitsey'd eat us up alive if he guessed the truth and came over here," contended Dutcher stubbornly. "Hey, Dick! What on earth are you doing?"
"Shoving one of the shutters back," Prescott answered, going on with his task.
"Hey! Don't do that!" pleaded Hen hoarsely, running over to Dick and grabbing one of the latter's arms. "Why, this is—it's suicide, that's what it is!"
"Yes?" Dick queried calmly, shaking off Hen's hold and going on with his task.
"It certainly is," Dutcher maintained fearfully. "Why, with a shutter open, Fitsey can jump right through the window glass and be in here on top of us in a jiffy. Please close the shutter."
"Not much!" Prescott rejoined energetically, and threw back the shutter in question. "This window doesn't look out upon the shack, but it does look out the way that Dave and the others will return. I want to see the fellows when they come."
"Of course; we all do," Greg broke in. "Dick you keep your eye mainly on the landscape beyond the window. Harry and I will get breakfast."
Dutcher groaned over the risk he knew they were taking, but he felt certain that no word of his would change the plan, so he wisely held his peace after that.
But breakfast was on and eaten, and still there was no sign of returning Grammar School boys.
"Dave and his crowd must-'a' gone through the deep snow at some point where it was soft," wailed Hen. "That's just what they've done."