Unguided, the horses brought the sled with a vicious crash against a snow-covered stump. The load rocked, one runner hoisted into the air, and the load toppled over completely. The log-chain could not stand such a strain, and right there and then occurred a notable overturn. “Pitcher of George Washington!” bawled Tim. “Now look what you went and done!” He declaimed this against the spirited team. The whole camp yelled its delight. “You ain’t fit to drive anything more lively than that old rackabones you tackle to your hack in summer, Tim,” declared the boss of the camp. “You don’t know nothing about managing a real horse.” “Hi, Timmy!” called another, “want somebody to hold their heads while ye build up that load again?” But the hackman accepted this good-naturedly. He was delayed quite an hour, however, in starting from the camp with Carolyn May; and an hour out of a winter’s afternoon is a good deal, for it becomes dark early at that time of year. When Tim had his load perfectly secure again he tossed the sacks on the logs, and then lifted Carolyn May to the top. Prince whined and barked at her. Her eminence was too great for him to gain. “Never mind, Princey,” she called to him. “You’d rather run, you know you would. We’re going home now.” The men in sight swung their caps and called their good-byes after her. Judy Mason flapped her apron from the cabin door. The sailor reached up to shake her mittened hand. This time the horses started properly, and, groaning, the heavily laden sled swung into the beaten track. The sun was already down; a silver paring of moon hung above the tree tops, growing brighter each minute as the daylight faded. The stars would soon begin to sparkle in the heavens. The track led through the thick wood, which quickly hid the camp and all its busy scene from view. Timothy had climbed to the top of the load, too, and settled himself comfortably for the ride. He proceeded to fill and light his pipe. “Aren’t you ever scared that there might be bears or something in the woods, Mr. Timothy?” Carolyn May asked him, looking about in some trepidation. “Of course, with Prince here, I know that no wild animal could steal upon us. But when you’re alone?” Tim chuckled. “Bears don’t pedestrianate around in winter—not as ever I heard on,” he said. “They’ve got too much sense. Bears hole up when the snow flies. An’, b’sides, they’re ain’t no bears. All done away with long ago.” “Are you sure?” Carolyn May asked anxiously. “Sure as shootin’. Pitcher of George Washington! think I’d go traipsin’ through these woods without no gun,” Tim asked, grinning at her, “if there was anything fiercer’n a polecat to be met up with? An’, come to think of it, _they_ hole up in winter, too. Gid-ap, there, ye lazybones!”