It was an exciting chase. Occasionally the skaters plunged and floundered through snow-drifts, so as to keep a straight course for their camp. Gradually the shore grew more distinct, the dark, grim trees on the hilltop stood out clearly against the moonlit sky. Then the huts, bathed in the soft light, came into view.
"Great Scott!" panted Sam Randall. "Look, they have changed their course."
Puffing, and almost breathless from the wild race, the boys slackened their speed, then stopped, to gaze after the forms of the hunters now speeding down the lake.
"What?—what do you think of that?" gasped Nat Wingate.
"Looking for Sladder and Musgrove, perhaps," exclaimed Dick Travers, breathing hard.
"But you can just bet they will be coming back," put in Sam. "Let's get over to the place and be ready for them."
"It will take more than those chaps to drive us away, too," declared Bob Somers; "eh, Chubby?"
"Fellows," exclaimed the poet laureate, "what is the first law of nature?"
"Self-defense."
"Right you are. Now—in order to avoid trouble, we have considerably overheated ourselves, besides allowing an unjust suspicion to rest on the whole crowd."