Here began a narrow path into the woods. The spoor of the two animals led into this path, and the boy and girl tramped along after them.

"I guess nothing frightened them," said Neale, "for they appear to be trotting right along at an easy gait. They must have pa.s.sed this way in the night. And that's kind of funny, too."

"What is funny?" asked Agnes.

"Why, deer--especially two, alone--ought to have been hiding in some clump of brush during the night. They don't go wandering around much unless they are hungry. And there is plenty of brush fodder for them to eat along the edge of the swamps, that is sure."

"Are you sure they are deer?" asked Agnes. "They couldn't be anything else, could they?"

"I reckon not," laughed Neale. "I say! who lives here?"

They caught a glimpse of an opening in the forest ahead. Then a cabin appeared, from the chimney of which a curl of blue smoke rose into the air. There were several smaller buildings in the clearing, too.

"Guess we have struck that old timber cruiser's place," Neale said, answering his own question.

"Oh! Mr. Ike M'Graw!" cried Agnes. "Now we can ask him if he shot the fox last night."

"But where did these deer go?" exclaimed Neale, stopping on the edge of the little clearing and staring all around.

For here the tracks they had followed seemed to cross and criss-cross all about the clearing. That wild deer should frolic so about an occupied house was indeed puzzling. He saw, too, that there were human footprints over-running the marks of the split hoofs.

Suddenly from around the corner of the cabin appeared the long, slablike figure of the woodsman. He saw them almost immediately.

"Hullo, there!" he cried. "Ain't you out early? I wouldn't have been up near so early myself, if it hadn't been for those confounded shoats of mine."

"What happened to the pigs?" asked Neale, smiling.

"They broke out o' their pen. Always doin' that!" returned M'Graw.

"Run off through the woods somewhere, and then come back and made sech a racket around my shanty that I can't sleep. Confound 'em!"

Neale suddenly saw a great light. He seized Agnes' hand and squeezed it in warning. With his other hand he pointed to the marks in the snow.

"Are those the pigs' footprints?"

"Yes. I just got 'em shut up again," said the woodsman. "Come in, won't you? I guess my coffee's biled sufficient, and I'm about to fry me a mess of bacon and johnnycake."

"What do you know about that?" murmured Neale to the giggling Agnes.

"We followed those pig tracks for deer tracks. Aren't we great hunters--I don't think!"

CHAPTER XVI

THE KEY

The interior of Ike M'Graw's cabin was a place of interest to Neale and Agnes. There was not much room, but it was neat and clean. There were two bunks, one over the other at one end of the room. At the other end was the big, open fireplace.

There were andirons, a chimney crane for a pot, a dutch oven, and a sheet-iron shelf that could be pushed over the coals, on which the old man baked his johnnycake, or pan-bread.

The coffee pot was already bubbling on this shelf and gave off a strong odor of Rio. The bacon was sliced, ready for the frying pan.

Ike wanted to cut more and give his two young visitors a second breakfast; but they would not hear to that.

"We'll take a cup of coffee with you," Agnes said brightly. "But I know I could not possibly eat another thing. Could you, Neale?"

"Not yet," agreed the boy. "And anyway," he added, with a smile, "if we are going to have a big storm as they say we are, Mr. M'Graw will need to conserve his food."

"Don't you fret, son," said M'Graw; "I've got enough pork and bacon, flour, meal and coffee, to last me clean into spring. I never stint my stomach. Likewise, as long as I can pull the trigger of Old Betsey there, I shan't go hungry in these here woods. No, sir!"

Neale stepped to the rack in the corner where stood the brown-barreled rifle the woodsman called "Old Betsey," as well as a single and a double-barreled shotgun.

"Which of these did you use last night, Mr. M'Graw, when you shot that fox?" Agnes asked.

"Heh? What fox?"

"Maybe it wasn't you," said the Corner House girl. "But somebody shot a fox right up there in front of the Lodge."

"When was this?" demanded the old man, looking at her curiously.

Neale told him the time. The woodsman shook his head slowly.

"I was buried in my blankets by that time," he declared. "Are you sure the fox was shot, young feller?"

"I've got it hung up to get the frost out so I can skin it," said Neale quietly.

"Shot, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"What sort of a ball killed it?"

"A small bullet. It was no large rifle bullet," said Neale confidently. "I should think it was no more than a twenty-two caliber."

"Pshaw! that's only a play-toy," returned the old man. "Who'd have a gun like that up here in the woods? Guess you're mistook, young feller."

"When you come up to the house you take a look at the fox," said Neale.

"I'll do that. Where'd the feller stand when he shot the fox?"

"Why," put in Agnes, as Neale hesitated, "we couldn't find his footprints at all."

"Humph!" muttered the old fellow.

He poured out the coffee. The cups were deep, thick, and had no handles. He poured his own into the deep saucer, blew it noisily, and sipped it in great, scalding gulps. Agnes tried not to give this operation any attention.

Neale meanwhile was examining several fine skins hung upon the log walls. There was a wolf skin among them, and a big, black bear robe was flung over the lower bunk for warmth.

"I got him," said the woodsman, "five year ago. He was in a berry patch over against the mountain, yonder. And he was as fat as b.u.t.ter."