Once they arrived at the spot selected as their next camp all started to work. Dick and Mayhew began to erect a thick screen of brush on the windward side, while Roger collected fuel wherever he could find it.
When he had made quite a pile of broken limbs, and splinters from a fallen pine tree, Roger got out his tinder-box and flints, and presently the rising smoke told that his fire was a success.
As the night closed in around them it was a rather cheery scene that Roger looked upon, while engaged in gathering a further supply of wood, perhaps twenty or thirty paces away. His two companions were still engaged in adding the finishing touches to the barricade; the flames leaped up with a snap and a sparkle, and the glow of the fire seemed to give the surrounding snow a rosy tint that did much to take away its cold look.
Roger sighed as he tightened his belt, drawing it up another notch, a familiar habit with hungry men.
“I think we will have to call this Camp Starvation, Dick,” he remarked, as he threw down the armful of fuel he had collected.
“No, that would hardly be a proper name for it,” the other told him immediately; “because we haven’t reached that point yet. I mean to put it down in my memory as Camp Hope!”
Roger must have been abashed by the gentle reproach in Dick’s declaration, for he did not make any reply until several minutes had passed. Perhaps he may have been weighing in his mind the many reasons they had to be thankful, in spite of the dark clouds hanging over their heads, for when he did speak up it was to say:
“Yes, we will call it Camp Hope, Dick.”