“Take me, and I’ll figure out anything you want. I don’t care if the thing’s all guesses and unknown quantities!” But Sam met the eager glances of none of his friends. His eyes were on Orkney, standing aloof and gravely observant. There was a tense pause. Then said Sam, very quietly, yet with a ring in his voice: “Sorry I can’t say yes to everybody. But--but whenever you’re ready, Orkney, we’ll make the plunge.” CHAPTER XXIX SQUARING THE ACCOUNT Imagine a winding valley, sparsely wooded, deeply banked with snow; a valley through which the gale sweeps with unchecked fury, whipping the bare limbs of the trees, catching up the crest of one shifting drift and sending it, a swirling mass of white, to build up another snowy ridge, in its turn to be leveled by the caprice of the storm; a valley bare of habitations, as lonely and deserted, apparently, as if it were buried in the depths of a great forest. Such was the course along which Sam and Tom Orkney fought their way. The cold was intense. The wind cut like a knife. Its force was so great that, when the windings of the valley forced them to face it, they could make progress but at a snail’s pace. By Sam’s reckoning they had made about a mile of their journey. How long a time it had taken he did not know--an hour certainly, perhaps much more. There had been frequent halts, both for consultation and rest; for here and there thickets were obstacles to the advance, while both boys felt the weakening effect of their fast. They were not acutely hungry, but each was aware of a dully persistent sense of a void beneath his belt. Studying the storm, however, Sam had caught a gleam of encouragement. Surely the clouds were riding higher, and were showing signs of breaking. The wind was not increasing. It was unlike the rising and falling squalls of the day before; for it was now a steady, hard blow. This change, along with the drop in temperature, convinced him that Lon had been right in assuming that the gale had hauled into the northwest, with a promise of clearing, if not warmer, weather. Though the air was full of flakes, caught up by the wind, the snowfall had almost ceased. Sam put his mouth close to Orkney’s ear. “Guess it’s blowing itself out!” he shouted. Orkney nodded. “My notion, too. But it won’t quit for a while yet.” “Sure! Nothing for us but to plug ahead.” And they “plugged.” The slang fitted the case. Orkney’s foot caught on a hidden root, and he pitched forward on hands and knees. The snow yielded under his weight; an unsuspected bank revealed itself; and Tom, the center of a small avalanche, slid a dozen yards toward the frozen surface of the South Fork. Sam, hurrying after him, helped him to regain his feet. “Thanks!” said Orkney, and shook himself like a Newfoundland emerging from a swim. In five minutes he had his chance to reciprocate. Sam caught a bad fall over a boulder, barely hidden by a drift.