With that he broke through the thicket, and Sam pressed after him. In a few minutes more they were on the bank of the stream, peering eagerly about them.
So heavy was the pouring rain that it was hardly possible to make out clearly the fringe of trees along the opposite side of the river. The swift current was racing along, its surface dotted with masses of ice and now and then a floating log.
“Umph! Gettin’ up, Sam, gettin’ up this brook is!” quoth Lon. “And somebody up-river’s losin’ his cord-wood. And I say now—jest look at that, will ye?”
Sam looked. He made out the object at which Lon was pointing, but at first was uncertain what it might be.
“Chicken coop,” Lon explained. “And that thing bobbin’ up and down yonder’s a packin’ case, or I miss my guess. Bet you they’re havin’ doin’s up above!”
Sam was doing his best to master every feature of the scene; but most of all he was seeking traces of his missing friends.
“I can’t see anything—anything of the boys,” he complained. “I don’t believe they came this way.”
Lon grinned wrily. “Don’t see why they should ’a’ wanted to, if they had the wits they was born with. And if we’ve got ours left, there ain’t no jest cause and impediment why we shouldn’t move on.”
“Which way?”
Lon considered briefly. “My notion is we might as well go back to the camp, and pick up another of the trails. There’s nothin’ to show that those fellows strayed here. But what in time made ’em drift away from the rest of the crowd, anyway?”