There was not much time to talk, so ready was every thing and every body; but it did seem to Port as if Vosh Stebbins's hand-sled, long as it was, was a small provision for bringing home all the deer they were to kill.
"The lunch-basket and the snow-shoes half fill it now."
"It'll do," said Vosh. "You'll see."
"Why don't you put on your snow-shoes?"
"The ice-pegs I've put in all your boot-heels'll be worth a good deal more, if the crust's what it's likely to be."
It was not a great while before they all discovered what good things to prevent slipping were a few iron peg-heads sticking out of the heels of your boots. As for the snow-shoes, nobody ever wants to wear such clumsy affairs unless it is necessary.
Old Ponto had been in a fever ever since the boys began to clean the guns Saturday evening; but Vosh had secured for that day's work the services of a very different kind of dog,—one, moreover, that seemed to know him, and to be disposed to obey his orders, but that paid small attention to the advances of any other person.
"Is Jack a deer-hound?" asked Port.
"Not quite," said Vosh. "He's only a half-breed; but he's run down a good many deer, knows all about it."
He was a tall, strong, long-legged animal, with lop-ears and a sulky face; but there was much more "hunter" in his appearance than in that of old Ponto. His conduct was also more business-like; for it was not until Ponto had slid all the way to the bottom of several deep hollows, that he learned the wisdom of plodding along with the rest, instead of searching the woods for rabbits.