Bill Breakstone and John Bedford were inside the little thatched hut, and the red coals of which Phil had spoken in fancy were really burning on the hearth. They had made no search for Phil and Arenberg in the deep snow, knowing that such a thing was useless. There was not one chance in a thousand that they could find them, while Phil and Arenberg, strong, capable, and brave, were sure to come back. So they took their rest and made the place as comfortable as possible for the return of their partners, who would certainly be cold and hungry. "John, keep that coffee ready to put on," said Bill Breakstone. "You know that your brother loves coffee when he comes in out of the snow and the cold." "It will be ready any minute," replied John Bedford. "And I’m glad, Bill, you thought of that little pot of tea for Arenberg. You know he loves to have it about once a week." "So I do," said Bill Breakstone. "Good old Hans. I suppose that he and Phil made a burrow somewhere in the woods, and slept in it last night. Naturally it’s slow traveling back here through such a deep snow. Now what under the sun is that?" The rude door of their little thatch was suddenly thrown open, and a small painted face thrust in. But the eyes in the painted face staring at them so intently, were blue, although they did not then notice the fact. "A little Indian boy," said Bill Breakstone, rising. "Probably he got lost from a band in the storm and has stumbled upon us. We wouldn’t welcome a lot of warriors, but we won’t repel one boy. Come in, Red Jacket, Tecumseh, Powhatan, or whatever your name may be. We won’t hurt you." To his immense surprise the boy walked boldly in, came straight up to him, and said, in excellent English: "I know that you are Bill Breakstone, and I want to hear you make rhymes." Bill stared and stared. It was perhaps the first and last time in his life that he was dumfounded. But two larger figures came in immediately behind the boy, and Phil said: "Mr. William Breakstone, I wish to introduce our new friend and comrade, Master William Arenberg. As ’William’ seems a trifle pompous, he is to be known as Billy to distinguish him from you, who remain the Bill that you always have been. Look this way, Billy, and you will see my brother, John Bedford." Hans Arenberg stood by, so happy that tears rose in his eyes. But Bill Breakstone came at once from his cloud of surprise. He snatched the boy up in his arms and gave him a big hug. "Well, Billy," he cried, "here you are at last! I don’t know how they got you, but they’ve brought you. Now my first duty as housekeeper is to wash our little boy’s face."