Poke was the next to be found in trouble. Down he slumped in the snow, and feebly resisted when Sam and Orkney tried to raise him. The web of one of his snow-shoes had pulled away from the frame, and, incidentally, had wrenched his ankle. All this involved a halt, while the Trojan and Step repaired the damaged shoe with a spare strip of rawhide--it was a slow and painful job for numbed fingers--and Sam argued zealously with Poke on the exceeding folly of dropping into a doze. When they went on, a change had been made in the procession. Step now kept close to the crippled Poke, giving over the leadership to Sam, who, on his part, brought the Shark to the second place in the line. The Shark, as has been said, was physically the weakest of the club, but so far had fared better than some of his stouter friends. As before Orkney acted as rear guard. Sam’s plan was simple, but perhaps as wise a plan as he could have made in the conditions. It was to find the valley of some stream and follow it out of the hill country. In the lowlands there would be the chance of reaching some farm, if not a village. Shelter was coming to be the first great need. The storm was getting worse and worse. The snow was falling as heavily as ever, the wind blew with almost hurricane fury, and the cold was intense. It penetrated the heaviest coats and mufflers. The boys shivered even as they toiled on, pluckily if weariedly following their guide. For a little, Fortune seemed to be kinder. They came to what may once have been a woods road, which for half a mile gave them a clear, if winding, path. Then the road ended in a tangled, upland swamp, through which there was no passage. While they slowly circled the obstacle Sam’s brain was busy. It was his business, evidently, to search for the brook draining the swamp; but so great was the extent of the marshy tract that at last he gave up the task, and turned into a ravine leading between low hummocks. After him trailed a slow procession, its pace regulated by the limping Poke. Sam turned to the Shark. “How far have we come--if you had to guess?” he asked. “Don’t know.” “Guess, anyway.” The Shark took thought for a moment or two. Then he glanced at his watch. “We’ve been out six hours and----” Sam groaned. “Six? I feel as if it was nearer twenty-four!” “It’s six. We traveled fast at the start, but we’ve been crawling lately. Call it twelve miles, all told.” “Oh, more than that!” “Huh! Guess yourself, then!” “But even twelve ought to bring us somewhere. And the farms stretch some distance this side of Coreytown.” “Umph!” was the Shark’s non-committal comment. Sam glanced ahead. They were nearing the mouth of the ravine, beyond which the ground appeared to fall sharply. Again he turned to the Shark. “Never saw a fiercer storm,” said he. “Blizzard!” “May last a couple of days.” “They do,” said the Shark grimly, and burrowed deeper in the upturned collar of his coat.