He looked about and saw sort of a nook under some bushes. On top was a matting of snow, like a roof. Tom crawled into this like some hunted animal, and sank down wearily. He pulled his mackinaw about him, thankful that he had it with him. He must have frozen without its protection. Again Tom was unaware of the passage of time. He must have dozed or fainted, perhaps, but when he opened his eyes the sun was shining. The day was a brilliant one, and warm, for that time of year. Tom took heart. He crawled out, and once more started on his wearying tramp. He was very weak and exhausted, and there was a “gone” feeling to his stomach. “Or the place where it used to be,” Tom said, with grim humor. “I don’t believe I have a stomach left.” But he forced himself onward. It seemed that he had been staggering over the snow for a week. Time had lost its meaning for him. “Oh, if I only had something to eat! If I only could find the camp!” murmured poor Tom. He reached a stump, and sat down on it to rest. He closed his eyes but suddenly opened them again. Was that fancy, or had he heard a shot? He leaped up, electrified, and then hesitated. Perhaps it was Skeel and the others after him. But a quick look across the snow showed him no one was in sight. Tom reasoned quickly. “Skeel and his crowd wouldn’t shoot unless they saw me, and then it would be to scare me. It can’t have been those men who fired. It must be the boys. But where are they?” Tom looked eagerly about. Again came the shot. There was no mistake this time. Then Tom heard a shout. He tried to answer it, but his voice was too weak. Another shot cracked on the frosty air, and then came a series of confused calls. “There he is!” “We’ve found him!” “Hurry up!” A mist dimmed Tom’s vision. He cleared his eyes with a quick motion of his hand, and then he saw his three chums and Sam Wilson rushing toward him. They came out of the woods, and, a moment later, had surrounded him. “Where were you?” “What happened?” “Where’s your gun?” “You look all in!” Fast came the questions. “I--I am all in,” Tom faltered. “It’s that rascal Skeel. I--I----” He could not go on for a moment. Then he pulled himself together. “Here! Drink this!” exclaimed Jack, producing a small vacuum bottle. “It’s coffee and it’s hot yet.” He poured some out into a tin cup and Tom drank it. It revived him at once. Then, with a little more of the beverage, and a hasty swallowing of a sandwich which formed part of the emergency lunch the boys had brought with them, Tom was able to tell his story.