“Let’s try this way,” proposed Tom, indicating the left. “According to my compass Camp No. 3 ought to lie off about there.” “And how far away?” asked Jack. “Not more than four miles--maybe five. But we can make that in about an hour and a half, if we don’t get off the trail.” “That’s the trouble,” commented Bert. “We can’t see any trail. We are going it absolutely blind!” And going it blind they certainly were. They were all a bit alarmed now, for they had no shelter for the night, and they had eaten most of their food. Suddenly, as they tramped along over the snow, there came a crash in the underbrush to one side. “What’s that?” cried George, nervously. “That bear----” began Bert, slinging around his gun. “Don’t shoot!” cried Tom. “It’s our dog come back to us!” And so it was. The intelligent and lonesome brute had abandoned the bear’s trail, and had come back to join his human friends. He was exhausted from long, hard running. “Now he’ll lead us to one camp or another,” said Tom. “Welcome to our city, Towser!” “What happened to the bear?” asked Jack, as the dog leaped about caressingly from one to the other. “Evidently nothing,” Tom said. “I don’t believe the dog found him. His name isn’t Towser though, by the way. I’ve forgotten what Sam did call him, but it wasn’t Towser.” “What makes you think he didn’t find the bear?” Bert wanted to know. “He’d show some evidence of it if he had,” was the reply. “He’d have a scratch or two. No, I think he gave up the chase soon after we did, and came after us.” “Well, now he’s here, let’s make some use of him,” suggested George. “Do you really think he’ll lead us back to camp, Tom?” “Well, there’s a chance of it,” Tom affirmed. “Let’s give him a trial. Here, old boy!” he called to the dog, a beautiful specimen. “Home, old fellow!” The dog barked, wagged his tail, and set off on a run through the driving snow. He barked loudly, turning now and then to see if any of the four young hunters were following. “That’s the idea!” cried Jack. “Come on, boys. He’ll lead us, all right!” “But _where_, is another question,” Tom put in. “My early education was neglected. I never learned dog talk, though I can swim that fashion pretty well.” “Swimming isn’t going to do any good--not in this weather,” murmured Bert, buttoning his mackinaw tighter about him, and beating his arms at his sides, for they all had been standing still, and were rather chilled. “I could talk hog-Latin,” Jack said with a smile, “but I don’t believe that is any good for a dog. Call him back, Tom. You seem to have more influence over him than anyone else, and he’s getting too far ahead. I wonder where he’s going, anyhow?” “I don’t much care--Camp one, two, or three will suit me just about now,” Tom remarked, as he turned his face to avoid a stinging blast of snowflakes. “Surely the dog knows his way to all three of them, and, if they are too far, he may lead us to Sam’s farm. That wouldn’t be so bad.”