Dave explained the situation.
"Oh, that's it," remarked Robson, reflectively. "On your way back, you might tell Sladder and Musgrove about the wolves. And by the way," he added, "I haven't much use for those fellows. Frankly, I don't like either."
"They always treated us well," replied Dave, evasively.
"Oh, I don't want you to say anything against 'em," laughed Robson, "but Billy Musgrove by all odds is the most impudent chap I ever ran across. We had a scrap the other day—he kept calling me 'Bobson,' and Piper, 'Swiper.' We got kind of sore, and Billy then fired off, sassing all three of us right and left."
"Musgrove never gets names straight," observed Dick, with a grin.
"It's beginning to snow," broke in Tom, "and the wind is coming up, too."
The sky was unusually dark and threatening; it seemed almost like approaching twilight.
An anxious expression came into Dick Travers' face, and Tom, too, surveyed the scene apprehensively, but the poet laureate's round features seemed only to reflect content, as he resumed his place before the fire.
"I'll bet it will be a howler," said Tom Clifton.
"And that we get snowed up for a week," grumbled Dick.