"Oh, ho, what are we going to do, fellows?" asked Dave Brandon, lazily, to Dick Travers and Tom Clifton, as they sat warming themselves before a cheerful fire.
"I don't think we ought to stray very far from camp," said Tom Clifton. "Looks as if there was going to be a big snow-storm."
"An 'undeniable fact,'" put in Dick, with a grin.
"And if it's anything like the kind that Riggs, Junior, spoke about, Tom is right," said Dave. "For my part, I'd sooner sit by a nice, big fire, anyway, than trot around over a lot of barren hills."
"You don't have to tell us that, Chubby," laughed Dick.
"No, I suppose not." The stout boy yawned and shifted his position slightly. "I haven't been able to write a single bit since I came out here," he grumbled, more to himself than to the others.
"Why not?" asked Tom.
"Too cold—and, whenever I begin, Billy Musgrove's face seems to bob right up in front of me."
"What has that to do with it?"
"See here, Dick Travers," observed Dave, with mock severity, "could any one have an inspiration and think of Billy Musgrove's face at the same time?"