With the advent of Leslie, life fell into pleasanter grooves in Weimer's cabin. Despite the anxiety ever present with the newcomer, and despite his natural reserve, Ross's exuberance of spirits caused by his presence and work affected him, and after the supper dishes were washed, the two boys wrestled, chaffed each other or talked, Ross about his father and uncle and aunt, Leslie about his school life in Omaha. "It's a boys' school," he explained one day, "a military academy. I've had to go there ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper. Discipline is fierce. I hate it, and this year I made up my mind I'd not stand it, so I'm here." "And wish," ventured Ross, "that you were back in school again." "Yes--almost," Leslie began impulsively and then paused, adding quietly, "Lots of things I wish, and wish 'em hard." The following evening after supper, Weimer tumbled into his bunk at once and began snoring. The two boys washed the dishes, in silence at first. Outside, snow was falling heavily. Through the drifting flakes the McKenzies' light shone fitfully. The brothers had been away again hunting and had just returned. As Leslie set the dishes on their shelf above the stove he glanced uneasily out of the window. He had not seen the McKenzies for some time. Ever since they had crossed the valley that noon on their snow-shoes, their hunting trophies on their shoulders, he had watched their cabin with that same air of uneasy abstraction. "Ross," he broke out at last, "I've got to tell you something. I hate like a dog to tell it, but it's got to break loose some time and it may as well be right now." He turned from the shelf, glanced at the snoring Weimer, lowered his voice, and, standing beside the stove, worked restlessly at the damper in the pipe. Ross, without looking at him, slowly scrubbed the dish-pan and then the table.