"Brace, Hen," Tom advised. "There, now you're ready. Good-bye, and come again when you're grown up."
"Those fellows don't know much about good manners," thought Hen Dutcher ruefully, as he started to run over the snow crust.
"Now that Hen is gone we'll be able to stay here a day or two longer," Dave announced. "We'll have the food to do it with."
"There's one good point about Hen Dutcher, anyway," grimaced Tom Reade. "He's a good, sincere eater."
"He was eating us out of camp," Dick replied. "Now, fellows, with Hen and Fits gone, we're all by ourselves—just the crowd that we want. The snowcrust will bear, and we can move about. We ought to have a jolly time tramping about through the woods."
"Hunting!" proposed Harry. "We've got the air rifle."
"Fishing," added Tom. "We brought tackle on purpose. We must be able to find some pond hereabouts."
"But say!" Dick suddenly interjected. "Do you fellows realize that we haven't been in the old shack since Mr. Fits left it? Queer as it may seem to some of you, I believe that Fitsey had a hiding place even in that little room. Let's go in there and see what we can root out in the way of mystery explained."
All six of the boys trooped around to the smaller structure at the rear of their camp. The door was still partly open. Dick, in advance, pushed his way inside.
"Well of all the boobies, what do you think of us?" demanded young Prescott, in deep disgust.