“Sherlock Holmes,” Sam corrected.
“No,” Lon insisted; “Shylock’s better. Chap, wa’n’t he, that stood out for his pound o’ flesh? Well, that’s me—only I’m goin’ to bring in nigher two hundred. And I’m goin’ to bring it in on the hoof—Peter Groche’s hoof, at that!”
So matters were arranged. As soon as the light strengthened sufficiently, Lon and Stub Cyr and Dayton set out. Meanwhile, the cook had contrived breakfast. The bill of fare was that of supper, but Sam observed that the tin plates were not heaped so lavishly. And, observing, he was stricken by doubts.
At the first opportunity he drew Mr. Kane aside.
“I wish you’d tell me something,” he said. “The fire has left you short of supplies, hasn’t it?”
“Wal, kinder,” the boss admitted. “Most of the grub, ye see, was stored in the ell. But ye needn’t worry; we won’t starve. I’ve started a team for Coreytown for supplies. It ought to be back by night.”
Sam meditated for a moment. “Look here, Mr. Kane! We’re half a dozen extra mouths to feed, and we can’t help being more or less in your way. And there isn’t any reason why we should stay. All of us brought our snow-shoes, and it’ll be just as much sport—yes, more—to be marching out on them as to be tramping about the camp. Father’ll understand. With the early start we’ll make, we can reach Coreytown long before dark. It isn’t over a dozen miles——”
“Call it fifteen.”
“Well, fifteen, then. It’ll be bully fun for us.”
It was the foreman’s turn to deliberate. “Wal, I dunno. Hate like time to be seemin’ to throw ye out! Only we can’t make ye extry comfortable, mussed up the way we be. And goin’ out would be safe enough. Track’s plain, and the road’s broke. I dunno, I dunno.”