Axes, hatchets, hunting-knives, guns and snow-shoes, besides provisions, were securely strapped to the sleds, and, at length, they were ready to leave.
"Old" Silas gave them minute directions as to the best route to take, and other bits of helpful advice.
"On the eastern side of the lake, near the south end, you'll find a cabin," he said. "'Tain't much to look at, but if nobody ain't thar, it may save yer the trouble of building a camp.
"Good-bye, boys," he added, grasping the hand of each in turn; "an' don't forgit to drop in an' see 'Old' Silas when ye come back."
The air was clear and crisp, and the wind had greatly moderated. Before them was a short stretch of open country, and beyond, glistening in the early morning light, rose the rounded tops of several hills.
Dick Travers, Sam Randall and Tom Clifton took the first turn with the sleds.
"How long is it going to take us to reach Lake Wolverine, Bob?" asked Tom Clifton.
"If we don't get tangled up in the woods, we ought to get there some time this afternoon."
"This snow makes hard walking," grumbled Dave. "Say, boys, I've got an idea. I think we're a lot of duffers. What are snow-shoes made for, eh?"
"Yes, what are they made for, indeed?"