"The cap'n's got a good head, an' Hackett's full of grit. The wust of it is, we can't do nothin'."
"No use looking on the worst side," commented the poet laureate, in positively cheerful tones. "Don't get scared until you have to. See what we've done, fellows." He pointed toward the huts.
"Cleared away a lot of snow, eh? That's great," commented Dick. "Lucky that it's sheltered here, or we might have been snowed up pretty badly. Some big drifts, as it is. Looks different, doesn't it?"
"Whew, fellows, this wind is too much," said Dave; "it's the hut for me."
The boys all crowded inside, followed by the trapper. A lantern hung from the roof, brightly illuminating the small interior, and making a cheerful contrast to the growing darkness outside.
"A purty snug little place, mates," observed Yardsley, seating himself on an empty box.
The light played fantastically over his rugged features, ruthlessly bringing out the wrinkles and hollows formed by conflict with the elements. His strong, bony hands clasped his knee, and, leaning back, he gazed moodily at the floor, now and then half starting when a particularly violent gust of wind shook the hut.
"It will soon be as dark as pitch," declared Tom Clifton, pulling aside the canvas flap and looking out. "Snow still coming down pretty lively, too. We'll have another job clearing it away in the morning."
"Where in the world can Hacky and Somers be, I wonder?" spoke up Nat.
"Don't worry, mates. They will turn up to-morrow, sure," said Yardsley. Then, to relieve his own feelings, he began to talk on other subjects.