"It's a long jaunt.

But come on!" On we tramped again, following that will-o'-the-wisp of a hand-sled track into the thick spruce forest.

For the first nine or ten miles everything went well; then one of the dangers of the great Maine woods in winter suddenly presented itself.
About one o'clock it began to snow--little icy pellets that rattled down through the tree tops like fine shot or sifted sand.

The chill, damp wind sighing drearily across the forest presaged a northeaster.
"We've got to hurry!" Addison said, glancing round.
We both struck into a trot and, with our eyes fastened to the trail, ran on for about two miles until we came to a brook down in a gorge.

By the time we had crossed that the storm was upon us and the forest had taken on the bewildering misty, gray look that even the most experienced woodsman has reason to dread.
The snow that had fallen had obscured the faint sled tracks, and Addison, who was ahead, pulled up.