“Oh, I forgot,” went on the Captain, “my aunt’s here, too, and she’s just as good on snowshoes as Uncle Theodore is, and she’s going along, too, and will see that you girls don’t take cold or anything. Please say you’ll come.”
There never was such sport as a winter hike. The preliminaries were arranged with much reassuring of parents and relatives; buying of all-wool clothing and blankets; selecting of cooking utensils and what the boys elegantly referred to as “grub.” “Uncle Theodore” was a real woodsman, who had spent most of his life in lumber camps; bluff, hale and hearty; a man to whom you would be perfectly willing to entrust your life after the first meeting. “Aunt Clara” was a little round dumpling of a woman, who radiated smiles like sunshine, and declared the Winnebagos were the handiest girls she had ever seen. It was their skilful way of packing supplies that called forth this praise.
Food and blankets were sent down by automobile a day ahead, so that the hikers would have to carry nothing but their cameras and notebooks. The morning of Washington’s Birthday found them all assembled on the station platform, for they were to go by cars to a certain town down state and from there to strike across the open country on their snowshoes.
“What are you going to do with the torpedo?” shouted the Captain, as Slim appeared carrying a strange looking package.
Slim smiled mysteriously. “Shoot rabbits,” he replied evasively.
“It isn’t a torpedo,” said quick-witted Sahwah, after one look at the package. “It’s a thermos bottle.”
A chorus of derision went up. “Better Baby has to have his bottle!” “Oh, Slim! Are you afraid you’ll starve before we get our dinner?” “What’s in it, Slim, let’s see!”
Slim turned fiery red and shot a dark look at Sahwah.
“It’s hot chocolate, I know,” continued his red-cheeked tormentor. “Slim has to have a dose every hour or he feels faint.” Sahwah had long ago discovered Slim’s pet weakness.
“Where’s Katherine?” said somebody suddenly.