“You’ll have plenty of chances. The season comes when the snow goes. Now let’s get along! Care where we go?”
“Not a bit,” said Varley. “You lead.”
It was rather incautious permission. Sam, elated by discovery of a companion who appeared to have lost sight of the runaway and its consequences, cheered by fellowship, and with the magic of the bracing air and the sunshine to set his blood coursing swiftly, set out at a pace which soon left Varley floundering far in the rear. Observing this, Sam halted for the other to overtake him, and went on more sedately, pausing now and then to give Varley a helpful hint. The city boy was an apt pupil. He learned quickly, but it was clear that his strength was not great. Sam, who was an observant fellow, slackened pace still more.
With such a day, though, neither of the pair was likely to consider very seriously the distance covered. They went on and on, sometimes tramping over the unbroken snow beside the road, sometimes making detours across promising fields. Once or twice they invaded wooded tracts, but roots and branches proved too big a tax on Varley’s skill, and they promptly made for the open. They were in high spirits, the novice’s occasional tumbles seeming to be as entertaining to him as to his instructor.
At last, as they halted on the top of a small hill, a sound came to their ears, a far-off sound, not loud but distinct, and often repeated.
“What’s that?” Varley asked curiously.
“Guess!” said Sam.
The other listened intently. There’s no stillness more wonderful than that of a calm day when the snow lies deep on the ground, and the earth seems to be dozing comfortably under its white coverlet. Tap, tap, tap! came the distant sounds, breaking the silence with almost the regularity of the beat of a pendulum.
“I—I can’t imagine what makes those sounds, but they’re—well, they’re clear-cut—if you can call it that.”
“You’re guessing better than you knew,” quoth Sam. “Wood-chopper over in the woods yonder.”