“No use, Sam!” he groaned. “I’d stall worse’n a balkin’ mule in the fust forty yards. No; you’ll have to give up the notion.” “But my notion is that you’re to stay here, and watch Groche.” “All right--but you’ll stay, too. I’d be plumb crazy to let you go. ’Tain’t ’sif we had the lay o’ the land. If we had, ’twouldn’t be so much like startin’ from nowhere for nowhere, in a blizzard, and with the thermometer ’way below zero.” “But we do know where we’ll start from--that is, we have a general idea.” “Eh?” “Wait a minute!” said Sam. “This is Calleck’s house, isn’t it?” “Ain’t any doubt o’ that, but----” “But Calleck’s house stands near the South Fork. Don’t you remember what the lumberman said? Don’t you know he told us Calleck started to build with stone, but finished the house any way he could? And doesn’t that description fit this place?” “It sure does. This is Calleck’s cabin, fast enough. Still----” Again Sam interrupted: “You know--in a general way, as I say--how the South Fork runs?” “Y-e-s,” Lon admitted reluctantly. “Empties into Blake’s River right at Coreytown.” “Exactly! And the lumberjack said the house was about ten miles from the camp. Now, I’ve been trying to figure out the map, as the Shark would figure it, and I don’t believe we’re three miles from the village.” The Shark had caught the mention of his name; also he had grasped the problem presented. “Three miles?” he repeated. “Huh! good enough--as a guess. Of course, I don’t call that figuring. If you’ll give me the true distances----” “Never mind, Shark!” said Sam promptly. “We’ll waive decimals and let it go at three miles, more or less. Then all we’ll have to do will be to find the South Fork, and follow the valley down-stream. And there’s a doctor at Coreytown, I’m sure; and the people won’t have to be asked twice to help us out.” Lon rubbed his chin. “Umph! There is a grain o’ sense in the scheme. Say, though, Sam! Where’s that Safety First idea you uster have on your mind?” “It’s there now--Safety First for the whole crowd!” Lon glanced at Groche. The light was strengthening, and the alarming appearance of the man’s face was undeniable. A very sick man was Peter Groche, at least to the eye of a layman. “Jiminy, but something’s got to be tried!” Lon confessed. “And followin’ the South Fork would be different from stragglin’ aimless. I dunno, I dunno!” Sam pressed his advantage. “I do know, then. And Lon! The quicker I start, the better.” “I reckon that’s true,” said Lon slowly. “Yes; if you’re dead sot to go, there’s no good in lingerin’. And you’re as husky as any of the boys. But who’ll you be takin’ with you?” As one the club stepped forward, and volunteered. “Choose me, Sam!” “No; I’m the one!” “Here, I’m your man!” “Say! I’ve got a right to go!” “Cut it out! He wants me, I tell you!” They rained their appeals upon him, the Shark last but not the least earnest: