"It was a moose!" thought the excited lad; "biggest one I ever saw. And I hit him!" he cried aloud, a minute later, as he examined the broad trail left by the flying beast. "Hit him hard, too," he added, as, noting blood stains on the snow, and forgetful of everything else, he set forth in hot pursuit of his stricken game. "He can't hold that pace long, wounded, and through snow as deep as this," he reflected, "and I shouldn't be surprised if I found him at bay inside of a mile. Oh, if I can only get him, it will settle the food question for the rest of the trip!" So, with high hopes, and with all his hunting instincts fully aroused, Phil followed that blood-stained trail, not only for one mile, but for several more, though without catching another glimpse of the flying moose. Nor could he discover any sign of slackened speed or diminished strength on the part of his huge quarry. The strides were just as long as at first, and the snow was flung just as far on either side of the trail. But for the crimson stains betokening a steady loss of blood Phil would long since have given up the chase. They encouraged him to keep on. "For surely," he said to himself, "no animal, not even a moose can stand a drain like that forever." All at once he stopped short and gazed about him with startled glances. The trail was growing dim; stealthy shadows were creeping through the forest. The day was spent and night was at hand. "Now I _am_ in for it?" he cried, bitterly. "Here I am miles from camp without an idea of its direction or that of the river. My only guide to either is the trail by which I have just come, and I should lose that in the darkness before I had gone half a mile. The only thing to do is make a hungry camp, and make it quick, too, before the light is wholly gone." Thus deciding, Phil left the trail and hastened towards a bunch of dead timber that stood a short distance to one side. He scraped the snow from a prostrate log, and then, using one of his snow-shoes as a shovel, dug out a small space down to the ground beside it. A little pile of dry twigs and bark and a few sticks of larger wood were hastily collected and heaped against the log. When he got his fire well started he would gather more. Now to whittle a handful of shavings, and then for a blaze. Oh, how good it would seem! How it would drive away the horrid loneliness, push back the encroaching shadows, and replace the deadly chill of the on-coming night with its own genial warmth! It could not furnish food, of course, and he must endure long hours of hunger, but even that could be borne with its cheery aid. And now to light it. Phil had a match-safe in one of his inner pockets, where he always carried it for just such emergencies as this, and at length, after a struggle with his close-fitting parka, he drew it forth. As he opened it and gazed into its empty interior a chill penetrated his very marrow.