Solomon smiled grimly as he swung his fifty-pound pack over his shoulder, picked up his ax, and started into the woods.
“It’ll grow a leetle heavier before night,” he remarked. “It’s a way them blankets have, in this country.”
“Which way are you going?” asked Fred, adjusting his eyeglasses for the tenth time, as he stumbled over a mossy log.
“Wall, I think we’ll strike into the old trail that leads up to the Silver Bow, and foller that fer a piece. Then—I’ll see.”
A rough tract of land lay between the clearing and the path. Baranov went right ahead, striding along over fallen trees and bowlders, with smoke-wreaths from his pipe floating back over his broad shoulders.
The forest was carpeted with deep, wet moss, into which the boys often sank to their knees; and more than once they tripped and nearly fell. The mountain-side was thickly wooded with spruce, yellow cedar and hemlock, the tough branches of which, wet with dew, twisted around their legs and swished into their faces.
“I say—Thomas,” sung out Fred, after ten minutes of this sort of work, “is that blanket—any lighter—than ’twas?”
“Not much! It’s gained—five pounds.”
“What do think—of the—scenery?”
The emphasis on the last word was caused by his setting foot on the slippery surface of a rock concealed by moss, and sitting down with great firmness.