The wind still howled.
"Are we going to turn in, soon ?" inquired Dave.
"My vote," announced Tom indolently, "is for another supper, and turn in at perhaps two o'clock in the morning." "I second the motion---as far as another supper goes," chimed in Danny Grin.
"It wants to be a supper of piping hot stuff, too," declared Greg.
"It's warm here in the tent, but the surrounding world is chill and drear.

Nothing but hot food will serve us." Preparations for the meal were quickly under way.
"I hope everyone within the reach of this storm is as comfortable as we are," murmured Hazelton.
"Why, we're so happy, we could entertain company with a relish," laughed Reade.
"Say, what was that ?" demanded Greg.
From outside came a faint sound as of someone stealthily groping about outside in the storm.
"Bring a lantern, quickly!" called Dick, going toward the tent door.
As Greg played the rays of light against the darkness outside, Dick suddenly sprang forth into the dark.

Then he returned, bearing in his arms the pitiful little figure of old Reuben Hinman, the peddler.
"Look at his head!" gasped Reade, in horror, as Prescott entered with the burden.
From a gash over the peddler's left temple blood was flowing, leaving its dark trail over the peddler's light brown coat.
Dick carried the stricken old man straight to his own cot, laying him there gently.
"Who can have done this deed ?" gasped Greg, throbbing with sympathy for the poor old man.
Outside other approaching steps sounded.

Dave and Tom, snatching up sticks of firewood, sprang forward..