Barker, having thrown one end of the blanket over the body of the dog, stood frowning a few moments in the open stable door, then turned suddenly to the others.
“I’m going to follow that crimson trail,” he announced. “Will you fellows come along with me?”
“You bet,” answered Springer.
“Sure we will,” nodded Sleuth eagerly.
“Then get your snowshoes, Phil, for we may need them. Here are my old ones, which I loaned Rollins last Saturday; Piper can use those. I shall take my gun.”
“You won’t nun-need a gun, will you?” faltered Springer.
“Can’t tell; I may. Hurry up after your snowshoes. We’ll be ready to start by the time you get back.”
Phil went off at a run, while Berlin and Sleuth made preparations to start out.
“My prediction is,” said Piper, “that we’ll have to hustle, for, if I mistake not, I see a feathery flake or two in the air already. It will be snowing hard in less than an hour, something on which I’ll stake my professional reputation.”
Soon Springer returned, panting and flushed, bringing his snowshoes. They were waiting for him, Berlin having his shotgun tucked under his arm. By this time the occasional snowflakes had grown more plentiful, and, in apprehension that the sanguine trail would soon be obliterated, they set forth with all possible haste.