“Then it’s as good as settled,” declared Brick. “I can hardly wait till we’re off. I’ve been wanting to see the Maine wilderness for years.”
“Know much about guns or hunting?” asked Jerry.
“Mighty little,” Brick candidly admitted. “I never shot anything bigger than a blackbird in my life. Game don’t run loose in New York.”
“We’ll show you sport enough,” promised Hamp. “Just wait till we strike the deer.”
The three lads fell to chatting with the freedom of old friends, and Brick quite forgot his aching head.
During the next few days all arrangements were made, and Brick provided himself and companions with a lavish outfit.
Brick had reported his adventure to the police, but without success. Mr. Pendergast had doubtless left the town.
The ground was covered with snow to the depth of half a foot on the crisp December afternoon when the young hunters landed at Katahdin Iron Works—the terminus of the Bangor and Katahdin Iron Works Railroad.
They were now more than one hundred and fifty miles from the coast, and very nearly in the center of Maine.
On the following morning they hired a sledge and driver, and were transported thirty miles northward—to the end of a rugged lumber trail. The next day they pushed ahead on foot, trailing two hand sleds, to which were strapped their provisions, guns, and various needed supplies.