“Yes.”
“You write it.”
Creeping beneath the overthrown tent, Joe managed to scribble a note. This he fastened securely to an Alpine staff and, having tied a red handkerchief to the staff that Curlie might not miss it, set it solidly in a hard-packed snowbank.
“That’ll do,” said Jennings. “Now give us a hand. Watch your face; it’s freezin’—your cheeks. Take your mitten off and rub ’em.”
The dogs, with tails to the wind, stood patiently enduring the storm. But when Jennings tried to get his team together they backed, twisted and turned in such a manner as to render them useless.
“Here, Ginger,” shouted Joe, “here Bones, Pete, Major. Show ’em what a real dog team can do!”
So great was the comradeship between these dogs and their young master that he was able in a moment’s time to hitch them to the sled, ready for action.
“Good old boys!” he muttered hoarsely; “we’ve fought wolves together. Now we’ll fight this blizzard.”
A sled-load of camp equipment was soon moving down to the willows by the creek bed.
In the course of an hour they had succeeded in establishing a safe and fairly comfortable camp. The dry willow leaves served in lieu of Arctic feathers, while the stems and branches made a crackling fire whose genial warmth pervaded the tent in spite of the storm.