Ethan winked several times as though he could hardly believe his eyes, and little wonder; for there, half lying in the snow was a child, a sturdy looking little chap not over five years of age possibly, and uttering sounds that the boys now realized were pitiful moans.
Apparently the little fellow had actually tried to light a fire, for there were a few sticks gathered, and half burned matches that had been struck in the useless endeavor to ignite the wood, lay scattered on the surface of the snow.
“Look at the little make-believe popgun, Phil,” said Ethan, in a quivering voice; “honest to goodness, I believe he’s started out to hunt game just as his daddy is in the habit of doing, and got lost. But, Phil, he must be nearly frozen. Let’s get a fire going and thaw him out in a hurry!”
Phil had already leaped forward. Forgotten was his camera at that moment, because his generous warm boyish heart was throbbing with sympathy for the poor little chap lying there.
“How about it?” asked Ethan, hovering close by while the other hurriedly examined the boy, who lay there with his eyes half open, seeing them, yet not appearing to notice what they were doing, with only that doleful little cry falling from his blue lips.
“No, he’s not frozen yet, I believe,” asserted Phil; “but another hour would have done the business for him. I reckon he knew how to keep his arms going until he got tuckered out. Get a fire started, Ethan.”
That was all the other was waiting to hear, and in all probability Ethan Allen excelled all his previous records for a quick blaze; because he worked with might and main.
Meanwhile Phil was rubbing the hands and limbs of the child, astonished beyond measure at having run across such a little fellow there in the midst of that Canadian wilderness.
“Here you are, Phil; fetch him up close to it!” called out the other boy, as he judiciously added further pieces of wood to the blaze he had contrived to start.
Neither of them could solve the problem as to where the little fellow had come from.