"It seems like I never can stand un so long," said Andy. "I'm weak for hunger."

Andy was to learn in the days that followed, what real hunger is, but he was brave enough, and not given to complaint. It is well, sometimes, for all of us to be tried out by the test of experience.

Only through experience can we learn the stuff we are made of, and only through deprivations of the comforts to which we are accustomed can we learn to appreciate the good things of life. Most of us are too p.r.o.ne to take things for granted, and to forget that what we have and enjoy are the gifts of a benign Providence.

Many times that day David and Andy declared they "could not walk another step," but they pushed and floundered bravely on until, in the dusk of evening, they stumbled at last into the friendly shelter of the Halfway tilt.

They were almost too weary to build a fire, but hunger conquered weariness, and presently with a roaring fire in the stove, and one of the partridges boiling--for, famished as they were, David insisted that the other one must be reserved for breakfast--they felt more cheerful. Fortunately they had left some tea in the tilt, and while their supper of half a boiled partridge each and a cup of tea was far from satisfying their healthy young appet.i.tes, it refreshed them.

"I'm thinkin'," remarked David, as they ate, "we've got a rare lot t'

be thankful for. Th' good Lard woke me up just in time last night. If I'd slept a bit longer we'd both been smothered with th' smoke and burned up."

"'Twere lucky you wakes," agreed Andy.

"I'm thinkin' 'tweren't luck, now," protested David. "I'm thinkin' th'

Lard were watchin', and wakes us just th' right time."

"And maybe," suggested Andy, in an awed voice, "'twere like we were sayin'. Maybe Mother was close by, watchin', and maybe she asked th'

Lard to waken us."

"Yes," said David, "I been thinkin' o' that too. There's no doubtin'

spirits walks about, and shows theirselves, too, sometimes. Uncle Hi Roper saw an Injun down t' th' Post one night paddlin' a canoe around.

He was an Injun that had been dead fifteen years, _what_ever. Uncle Hi knew he, and called to he, but th' Injun didn't answer because he were just a spirit. He kept on paddlin' and paddlin' in a circle, and never speakin'. It scared Uncle Hi, and he ran in and told Zeke Hodge, and Zeke comes out, but he couldn't see th' Injun then. He'd just disappeared."

"Oh-h!" breathed Andy. "I'd been scared too! But I wouldn't be scared at Mother's spirit."

"I'd--I'd be glad t' see un," said David.

But if their mother's spirit came that night to look lovingly upon her two brave boys, they did not know it. They had rested but a short time the previous night, and, exhausted from their struggle of nearly twenty hours with the snow drifts, they quickly fell into sound and dreamless sleep.

It was long past daylight when they awoke, to the sound of shrieking wind, and when David looked out of the tilt door he was met by a cloud of driving snow.

"'Tis a wonderful nasty day," he said.

"Is it too bad t' travel?" asked Andy, anxiously.

"Aye," said David regretfully. "We never could face un. We'll have t'

bide here."

"And we only has one pa'tridge t' eat!" mourned Andy.

"Only one pa'tridge," repeated David solemnly.

"Whatever will we do without eatin'?" asked Andy.

"We'll have t' make un do, _what_ever," declared David. "They's no other way."

"I'm fair starved now," said Andy. "All we had t' eat th' whole of yesterday was half a pa'tridge each."

"We'll make out with un. We've got tea," cheered David. "And maybe th'

wind'll pack th' snow so th' travelin'll be better tomorrow--if th'

storm breaks. 'Tis like t' be better from this on, anyhow, for th'

river's wider."

"If we eats th' pa'tridge now," Andy calculated, "we won't have anything t' eat to-night or in th' marnin'!"

"Suppose," David suggested, "we cooks half of un now, and just drinks th' broth for breakfast, and keeps th' meat for night. Then we'll have th' other half t' eat in th' marnin' before we starts out."

"I'm too hungry t' be waitin' like that," objected Andy. "Let's eat th' meat now and th' broth tonight, and keep th' other half for marnin'!"

David's hunger doubtless cast the deciding vote, for though reason told him the plan he had suggested was the wiser, his hunger got the better of his judgment. And they were still so hungry when the small portion had been disposed of that in the end they ate the broth as well.

It was a miserable day for the lads. No matter what they talked about their conversation always drifted back to food. They could not avoid it, for food was the thing uppermost in their minds.

A hundred times that day one or the other went out of doors into the storm in the hope that they might discover some sign of its abatement, always to be met by the smothering drift, and when they arose the following morning snow was still falling heavily, though the wind had lost much of its force. They ate the half partridge remaining, but it served only to whet their appet.i.tes.

"Th' snow's fallin' thicker'n ever," announced David, after an inspection late in the afternoon.

"It just seems like I can't stand un, I'm so hungry!" declared Andy.

"Suppose now we start tomorrow marnin', _what_ever. I'm thinkin' we might make un," he added hopefully.

"We never could make un," David objected. "We'd perish. We'll have t'

'bide here till th' weather clears. I'm as famished as you be, Andy, b'y, but we'll have t' put up with un."

"It seems like I'd just die o' hunger!" mourned Andy.

"Sometimes men goes without eatin' for a week," consoled David, "and it don't kill un if they don't give up to un. There'll be some way out. Pop says there's a way out'n every fix if you sticks to it and don't get scared or give up."

"Aye," said Andy, with new courage, "I were thinkin' of that th' time I were caught out above th' big mesh, and then I makes a shelter and I'm all right."

The thought consoled them both, and though still they talked of food, it was now in the manner of planning great feasts when they should reach home.

"We'll have Margaret cook us a fine big mess o' pork, and we'll eat all we wants, with bread and mola.s.ses t' go with un," suggested David.

"Oh, but won't that be eatin' now!" enthused Andy. "And there'll be plenty o' trout, too, when we gets out, and salmon'll be runnin' th'

middle o' July! I could eat half a salmon now if I had un!"

The wind had died out, though all that night the snow fell, but in mid-forenoon of the following day the clouds lightened, and shortly after noon the sun broke out, warm and brilliant.

"We can start now!" exclaimed Andy, "and we'll make th' narrows tilt before midnight, _what_ever, and have a good supper."

"We can try un," said David dubiously, "but I'm fearin' we'll find th'

fresh snow more than we can manage. There's been no wind for a day t'

drive un off th' ice, and yesterday and last night it snowed wonderful hard."

David was correct. They had found the river bed badly clogged on their journey down from the Lake Namaycush tilt. Now it was vastly worse.

They sank to their waists, the moment they attempted to leave the tilt, and finally, quite satisfied that travel was impossible, they retreated disconsolate and discouraged to the tilt.

"We'll starve now," said Andy, in a tone almost of resignation.

"There's no way out."