Mr. Collins grunted. “Guess he’ll pull through, though he’s pretty old to get bumped like he did. Well, you fellows keep your eyes open and if you see any suspicious characters around get in touch with my office right away, understand. They might show up here. You can’t tell. Last night’s snow came along pretty lucky for ’em, covering up their foot-prints like it did. Guess if it hadn’t been for the snow I’d have caught ’em before this.” “Yes, sir,” said Bert, “we’ll keep a lookout. Only I don’t just see,” he added dubiously, “how we could let you know if we did see them. I don’t suppose there’s any telephone around here, is there?” The Sheriff pursed his lips and studied the stub of cigar, which he removed for the purpose. “Guess that’s so, too,” he acknowledged. “There’s a ’phone at Old Forge, but that’s pretty nigh six miles. And there’s one at Lincoln’s, up――no, there ain’t neither. He had it taken out last summer ’cause the city folks was always runnin’ in there to ring up Boston or New York or some place and always forgettin’ to pay for it. Well, there’s telephones down to North Pemberton, anyway, and――” “How far would that be?” asked Bert innocently. The Sheriff blinked. “’Bout eight or nine miles, maybe, by road: ’bout six if you take the trail.” Bert grinned. “I’m afraid the robbers would get away before we reached the telephone,” he said. “That’s my lookout.” Sheriff Collins spoke sternly. “It’s your duty as a citizen to let me know just as soon as you can if those fellers turn up around here, and, mind, I’m holdin’ you to it.” He glared hard a moment, rolling his soggy fragment of cigar in his mouth. Then he nodded, turned and scrambled back up the slope to where the sleigh awaited. The boys skated back to the fire, replenished it and discussed the exciting event. The sound of sleigh bells coming ever nearer told them that Sheriff Collins was following the road around the lake to the empty cabins. Presently it passed behind them and became fainter. Joe looked thoughtfully along the curving shore. “You know,” he said, “those robbers might be around. We don’t know that they aren’t.” Bert sniffed. “Pshaw,” he said, “they wouldn’t stay around here. They’d hike out for the city.” Hal was thereupon prompted to tell just what he would do to throw the bloodhounds of the Law off his track in case he had committed a robbery, and then Bert indulged in a few theories, and thus a pleasant half hour passed, during which the Sheriff’s sleigh jingled back and past and out of hearing, presumably without the fugitives. Wearying of the subject under discussion, Joe presently arose and slid out on to the ice, where, thinking himself unobserved, he attempted a figure eight and promptly sat down. The resultant concussion was sufficient to attract the attention of the others, and Bert asked in a very disgusted voice: “Gee, Joe, aren’t you _ever_ going to learn to skate?” “I don’t believe so,” replied Joe dolefully.