Fred did not answer, and Harry said no more, seeing that his chum did not relish the joke. Both baited up afresh, and this time Fred got a real bite, and landed a pickerel weighing close to a pound. “Now you’re doing something!” cried Harry, heartily. “I’ll give in, you are the best fisherman, after all.” “It was blind luck, Harry. You may——You’ve got a bite!” Harry did have a bite, and the strain on the line told that his catch was a heavy one. He had to play his catch a little. Then it came up—a fine lake bass twice the size of the pickerel. After this the sport continued steadily, until the young fishermen had fourteen fish to their credit. In the meantime it had grown quite dark, and the air was filled with softly falling snowflakes. “I wonder if the others have got back to the lodge yet?” said Fred. “It is not likely, Fred. That last shot we heard came from almost on top of the hill.” “I hope they’ve had good luck. It looks now as if we wouldn’t be able to do much to-morrow.” “Oh, this storm may not last. The wind isn’t in the right direction. We may—Hark!” The boys stopped short in their talk, and both listened intently. From a distance they could hear a faint cry: “Help! help!” “It is Joe!” ejaculated Harry. “He is in trouble. We must go and see what is wrong!” And throwing down his line and his fish he bounded in the direction of the cry for assistance, with Fred at his heels. CHAPTER VIII WHAT HAPPENED AT NIGHT We must go back to the time when Joe and old Runnell started away from Snow Lodge to see what game they could bring down for the next meal or two. “We haven’t any time to waste,” said the old hunter, as they moved along. “In an hour it will be too dark to shoot at a distance.” “Shall we take snowshoes along?” asked the youth. “Not worth while, lad. We’ll try those in the big forest over on the mainland later on.” The lodge was soon left behind, and old Runnell led the way through some brushwood that skirted the base of the hill. “There ought to be some rabbits around here,” he said, and had scarcely spoken, when two rabbits popped into view. Bang! went his gun, and both were brought low by the scattering shot. “Gracious! but you were quick about that!” cried Joe, enthusiastically. “You don’t want to wait in hunting, Joe. Be sure of what you are shooting at, and then let drive as quick as you can pull trigger.” On they went, and a few rods farther scared up two other rabbits. Joe now tried his luck, Joel Runnell not firing on purpose. One of the rabbits fell dead, while the other was so badly lamed that Joe caught and killed him with ease. “Good enough! Now we are even!” exclaimed the old hunter. “Do you think we shall find any large game here?” “Hardly. If a deer was near by he’d slide away in jig time as soon as he heard those shots. The most we can hope for are rabbits and birds.” “I see a squirrel!” cried Joe, a little later.