In a short time the march was resumed.
The creek was found to be narrow and winding, but the wind had blown its surface comparatively free from snow.
"Now we'll make some speed," said Sam, as he unstrapped his snow-shoes. "Look out for air holes and thin places, fellows."
The crisp whirr of seven pairs of skates was soon ringing out, and the three victims of the snowslide almost forgot their aches and pains in the enjoyment of the sport.
"Great, isn't it?" grinned Hackett, cutting a letter S. "Anybody want to race?"
"Not to-day, my boy," said Bob. "Guess you've got us there."
Grim, dark trees hung over the watercourse, their interlacing branches covered with snow. Occasionally, boughs, still full of dull yellow leaves—like a touch of autumn in the bleak winter landscape, added brightness to the scene.
"Must be lots of minks, otter and beavers along these banks," declared Bob. "They live in just this kind of place."
"We'll make old Sladder open his eyes when we get back with a load of skins," exclaimed John Hackett. "The cheek of him to ask if we knew anything about hunting. Bang! I can hardly wait."
"The wildcats are going to catch it, fellows," drawled Tommy Clifton.