[CHAPTER IX.]
THE SILVER-TIP.
On leaving the wharf, Baranov had led the way directly up through the settlement, past the Mission School, until he reached the very outskirts of the village, where, in a half-cleared patch of ground, the boys stopped to get breath and wave a last good-by to their father.
“Naow,” said the guide, with some emphasis, “comes the tug of war. You’ve both got good thick boots on, I s’pose?”
Tom was well-equipped in this respect, and Fred’s shoes were heavy enough for ordinarily rough walking and weather.
“I’ve got a blanket apiece cached here,” continued Baranov, looking about him, and presently drawing out two bundles from beneath a big stump, where he must have hidden them the night before. “They’ll be pretty heavy for ye to lug, but thar’s no tent, and it’ll be cold enough before mornin’ to make you glad you brought ’em.”
He thereupon produced some twine and straps, and arranged a blanket on the back of each of the two boys, so as to make the loads as easy as possible.
“I’ve got my blanket and a rubber to put under us,” he added, “in my bag.”
“Ho, this isn’t any load!” shouted Tom. “It’s light’s a feather.”