The boys laughed, and waved their hands, as the sleigh began to draw away from the platform.
"Hurrah! Now for the wilderness!" cried Sam Randall, enthusiastically. "We can't get there too soon."
The driver again cracked his long, snake-like whip, and the sleigh-bells jingled merrily.
Up and down hill, between dark, sombre woods, over bridges which spanned frozen streams, then past bleak, barren stretches of fields, dazzlingly white, they went, until the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, and a yellow glow suffused the west.
"'Tain't fur now," volunteered the driver—he pointed with his whip—"jest over that there hill. Drat that bay—the pesky brute's a-stumbling—whoa, Prince—yes, jest over that next hill."
"And it's an 'undeniable fact' that I'll be glad to get there," laughed Dick Travers.
In the course of about fifteen minutes a house was passed, then another, and finally they saw a frame building somewhat larger than those around it.
"The hotel," said the driver.
This information was scarcely necessary, as a large sign in front announced to all that the Backwoods Hotel provided the best of accommodations for travelers.
"Hunting parties sometimes stop at Silas Riggs'—he's the boss," explained the driver. "A fust-rate fellow he is too."