"And why, pray, Roy Prescott?"
"Oh, because—because, well, this isn't the sort of thing for a girl."
"Well, I guess if my brother can stand it I can," rejoined the girl, pluckily and in a firm voice.
"Well, there's no use minimizing the fix we're in," declared Roy. "This is a lonesome bit of country. It may be a week before anyone will come around. We've just got to get out, that's all there is to it."
"I wish you'd solve the problem then," sighed Jimsy; "it's too much for me."
"I'll make another search of the premises, maybe we can stumble across something that may aid us. At any rate, it will give us something to do and keep our minds off the predicament we are in."
Roy struck a match, of which he had a plentiful supply in his pockets. As the yellow flame sputtered up in the semi-gloom it showed every corner of the small hut. But it did not reveal anything that promised a chance to gain their liberty.
All at once, just as the light was sputtering out, Peggy gave a cry. Her eye had been caught by a glistening metal object in one corner of the hut.
"What is it?" asked Roy.
"A gun—a shot-gun standing in that corner over there."