“It was like pulling teeth to get old Skeetles to consent,” came from Fred. “It gives him a regular fit to have us on the island. I must say I can’t understand it.” “I’d really like to know if those missing papers have anything to do with it,” mused Harry. “If he lost them here I’d give a good deal to find them.” “Did you ever hear where that boat struck?” asked Joe of Joel Runnell. “It seems to me it struck just south of Needle Rock,” was the answer. “But I’m not certain. I might find out, though.” “Where is Needle Rock?” “On the other shore of the island, about half a mile from here.” “Well, I’m going there some day and have a look around.” The rest of the day passed quietly. Some time later Runnell went off on his snowshoes to look for the fourth deer—the one Harry had abandoned. When he came back he said he had found only the head and a few bones. “The wolves carried off the rest,” he said. “And they ate up those dead wolves on the main shore, too.” “Well, I don’t want to meet any more of those critters,” said Harry, grimly. “Nor do I,” added his brother. “The only good wolf is a dead one.” “And I don’t know that he is good for much,” laughed Fred. Strange to say, with the going down of the sun the wind came up again, a steady breeze, gradually increasing to little short of a gale. “We are going to have another wild night,” said old Runnell. “We’ll have to watch the fire.” “By all means,” cried Fred. “We don’t want to burn up.” All hands sat up until after nine o’clock, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees and hurled the snow against the shelter. Outside the stars shone brightly, but there was no moon. “Hark! I hear a bark!” said Fred, presently. “Can there be a dog around?” “Marcy owns a dog or two,” answered Joe. “But I didn’t know he had them here.” “That was the bark of a fox,” came from Joel Runnell. “It’s a wonder to me we haven’t heard them before.” “Perhaps the wolves have made them keep quiet,” suggested Harry. “More than likely, or else they have been snowed up.” The young hunters were sleepy, and it did not take any of them very long to sink into slumber after retiring. Then Runnell fixed the fire for the night, and laid down close to the opening of the shelter. A half hour went by and the fire began to die down. The wind kept on increasing, and some of the stars went under a cloud, making the night quite dark. From the direction of Snow Lodge a form crept into view. It was Dan Marcy, with his coat buttoned up to his ears, and his slouch hat pulled far down over his brow. With cautious steps Marcy reached the wall of snow and peered over into the inclosure. By the faint firelight he saw the feet and lower limbs of Joel Runnell, and, listening intently, heard the old hunter snoring. “All asleep,” he murmured to himself. “Good enough. Now we’ll see if we can’t have the stores we want, and a little more besides.”