But the Shark didn’t wait to hear the punishment he deserved. He shook off Step’s hand. He glared at the critic. “Course I’m not fooling with any kindergarten fifteen!” he cried hotly. “Just mentioned that to try to get down to your understanding. But I have been working ninety-seven, and I tell you----” But what the Shark had to tell was to remain his secret. From without the house came sounds, clearly to be distinguished from the tumult of the gale. Blows were falling upon the door. The boys sprang to their feet, but before they could respond to the summons the door was thrust back, and into the room reeled a man, covered with snow from head to foot. After him hobbled a second man, like the first plainly in sore straits from his battle with the blizzard, but holding fast to the end of a rope, which was passed about the leader’s body and knotted securely below his shoulder blades. From the club rose a shout, which mingled wonder and welcome. For the man who held the rope was Lon Gates, and the man he drove before him was Peter Groche. CHAPTER XXVII PETER’S GRUDGE Groche, stumbling forward, pitched in a heap on the floor. Lon, staggering to the wall, clung to it for support. “You--you fellows--here--all of you!” he gasped. “All of us--safe and sound,” cried Sam, and tried to lead him toward the fire. Lon resisted. “No, no! Take--take it easy. I--I’m better off here for a while. But--but what you doin’--doin’----” his voice trailed weakly. In a dozen sentences Sam told him. Lon’s eyes opened wide. “Wal, wal! And the storm catched you! And such a whopper of a howler of a storm, gee whillikens!” “We know about it. But where did you come from?” Lon pulled off his cap, and bending down, scooped up a handful of snow from the drift under the window. “Wait a minute--fust aid treatment fust!” said he; and began to rub his face and ears. “No; lemme be! You--you can’t help me. I’m like--like an old cat--got to lick my own scratches.” Perforce Sam desisted. Lon, working deliberately and carefully, winced now and then. “Got through the hide in places,” he admitted. “This ain’t no night for a polar bear to be out. Wow! but that wind did sting and cut!” Sam laid finger on a clean gash in Lon’s coat. “Wind didn’t do that, did it?” “No,” said Lon; but he limped to Groche and studied the prostrate figure for a moment before he went on: “No; knife done it--’twas his only good jab at me.” Lon drew a little nearer the fire, but kept a wary eye on Groche. His voice was gaining strength, though he still spoke huskily. “Wal, three of us started from the camp, you know. Stub picked up the trail. It led north. That meant the critter was steerin’ for the Canady line. But the storm turned him back--that’s how I got him.” “You alone?” asked Sam eagerly.