"Pick him up," ordered Tom. "Make the fastest time you can to our shack."
In the shack the fire was allowed to burn low. Harry, still unconscious, was stripped and put to bed.
"Anything you want, let us know, sir," said Tim Walsh, as the men tramped out again.
Then Tom and Ferrers sat down to try to think out the best thing to do for Harry Hazelton.
He was still alive, his pulse going feebly. He had been briskly rubbed and warmly wrapped, and a quantity of hot, strong coffee forced gently down his throat.
After a while Hazelton came to, but his eyes had a glassy look in them.
"You're a great one, old fellow, to go out into the snow and get lost," Tom chided him gently.
"Did—-I get—-lost?" Harry asked drowsily.
"Yes. Here, drink some more of this coffee. Jim, make a fresh pot. You can stir the fire up a bit now."
"I—-want to sleep," Harry protested, but Tom forced him to drink more coffee. Then Hazelton sank into a deep slumber, breathing more heavily.