The Grammar School Boys Snowbound

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Greg soon busied himself, tea-kettle in hand, with thawing the ice
around the bottoms of the sliding shutters.

"No tracks at the cook shack," announced young Holmes. "And say,
fellows, it has stopped snowing."

"Well, for once in my life," smiled Dick, "I think I've seen enough
snow. I just wonder how the folks in Gridley are getting through it."

"Oh, they must have the streets broken, after a fashion, and some sort
of paths on the main sidewalks," responded Tom Reade judicially.

All were now at the windows, looking out over the scene. At only two of
the windows, however, could a level view be obtained; the two others
were completely blocked by piled up snow. The rest of the windows could
be used for observation purposes when the Grammar School lads placed
boxes on which to stand.

"The snow looks soft yet," declared Dave.

"It is soft; you can see that in the way that the wind catches it up in
flurries," Dick argued.

"Then we can't get far in it to-day," decided Tom Reade. "We can't
travel far over the snow until we have a cold spell for twenty-four
hours that will freeze the top of the snow into a hard crust."

"When that crust comes we just will travel," muttered Dave.

"Getting tired of camp?" grinned Dalzell.

"No, Danny Grin; but you forget something."

"What?"

"We've got a duty to perform. As soon as we can get where there's a
telephone, we've got to send word to the Gridley folks that Mr. Fits is
in these parts."

"But Mr. Fits isn't here," Greg objected.

"That's so," Darrin admitted slowly. "And yet the rascal must be
somewhere around, for he couldn't get far in such a blizzard as we've
been going through."

"What I'm even more anxious about than Mr. Fits is telephoning the news
to the home folks that we're all safe here, and as snug and comfortable
as can be," Dick interposed. "Whee! But our folks must be worried about
us. They'll never let us go camping again in winter."

"Oh, I don't know about that," argued Dave. "If we only prove to them
that we can weather such a time as this, without sickness or disaster,
they'll be ready to believe that we can take care of ourselves anywhere
on earth."

"Why, there isn't anything very hard about taking care of ourselves
here," Dick continued. "All we have to do is to show a little industry.
We've got everything at hand that we could possibly need. But I wish the
home folks knew how comfy and happy we are."

"I'd like to see myself out of this," grumbled Hen Dutcher, lying
huddled in his bunk under the pile of overcoats. "Say, fellows, is it
warm enough for me to get up yet?"

As all of the real boys in the party were already up, none of them
thought it necessary to answer Hen, who presently slid out of his bunk
and began to dress rapidly.

"What are we going to have to eat this morning, and when?" Hen wanted to
know.

"I guess we'll have a light breakfast this morning," hinted Reade.

"Why?" demanded Dutcher, his jaw dropping.

"So we can have a better appetite for the turkey we brought along.
Fellows, don't you think we'd better eat that turkey to-day? It may not
keep."

"Turkey?" blurted Hen Dutcher, his eyes dancing with anticipated
pleasure. "I didn't know you had any grub as fine as that."

"I've been thinking," proposed Prescott, "that we might as well have
some of that turkey for breakfast this morning."

"Why, is it already cooked?" cried Hen.

"Oh, no," Dick admitted.

"Then let's have something else for breakfast and keep the turkey until
noon," suggested Dutcher. "I can't wait for my breakfast."

"What do you fellows say?" asked Dick, putting it to a vote, but
ignoring Hen. "Shall it be turkey for breakfast?"

"Turkey!" solemnly voted five Grammar School boys.

"I call it a shame to treat a fellow like this," grumbled Hen. "To make
a fellow wait so long for his breakfast when he's starving to death!"

But none of the others gave any sign that they heard. Dick went to a
shelf on which lay many packages of the food they had brought with them
two days before. Dick took down a plain little wooden box and stepped to
the table.

"Put on about eight eggs, and boil 'em hard, will you, Greg?" Dick
asked. "Tom might tackle the coffee-making this morning. Dan and Harry
can get potatoes ready."

"But where's the turkey, then?" queried Hen, watching Dick as he opened
the box.

"Right here," proclaimed young Prescott, removing the lid.

"Why, that's--that's codfish, salted and dried!" exploded Hen.

"Well, isn't codfish Cape Cod turkey?" demanded Reade, with a grin.

"Is that the only kind of turkey you have with you?" asked Hen.

"The only kind," smiled Dick. "Don't you like codfish, Hen?"

"Not a little bit," grumbled Dutcher.

"Then you can cut out breakfast, and you'll have a fine appetite at
noon," offered Dan consolingly.

"It seems to me that you fellows use me as meanly as you know how,"
flared Hen. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"We are," Tom assured the grumbler.

Though the codfish should have been soaked over night, Dick accomplished
much the same effect by repeatedly scalding it. Then he put it on to
cook in boiling water, and next made a flour sauce in the way that his
mother had patiently taught him. The hard boiled eggs, after being
cooled in cold water, were sliced up and put over the dish when it was
ready. This, with potatoes, bread and butter and weak coffee with
condensed milk, made a meal that satisfied all hands. Hen didn't like
the meal, but he ate more of it than any one else.

"What are we going to do to-day for fun?" Dan wanted to know as
breakfast drew to a close.

"Shovel paths and stock up with water and firewood, I guess," smiled
Dick.

"Pshaw! I'm sorry it has to be all work, and that we can't have any
fun," remarked Harry Hazelton. "I've just been longing to go hunting and
get a rabbit for a stew."

"We'll be here for days and days yet," answered Dick. "I guess we'll be
able to find plenty of fun before our camping frolic is over."

"It's fun, just being here and living this way," Darrin declared.

Something beat against one of the windows, causing the boys to look
around curiously.

"Just a twig blown off from some tree," declared Tom.

"Is it?" floated back from Greg, who had leaped up and was now hurrying
toward the window in question. "It's a pigeon--that's what it is. And
the poor thing looks perishing, too."

In truth Mr. Pigeon did seem to be about spent. The poor thing huddled
against the sash, as if trying to shelter itself from the biting wind
and the fine dust of blown snow.

"Bring the tea-kettle, some one," called Greg, and Dick did so.

"Pour the water on so that I can get the window open," Greg directed.
"Just enough to soften the ice so that the sash will move back. Be
careful not to let any of the hot water scald the pigeon's feet."

Working gently, in order not to alarm the spent bird, Dick and Greg soon
had the window open, and Greg drew in the all but frozen little flyer.

"Say, we can have pigeon stew, or pie, if anyone knows how to make a
pie," cried Hen Dutcher.

"You scoundrel!" breathed Greg fiercely. "Your stomach makes a brute of
you, Hen Dutcher!"

"Oh, what's the sense of being silly about nothing but just a bird?"
insisted Hen.

"I'll fight any fellow who proposes eating this poor little wayfarer,"
announced Greg.

"Whatcher getting mad about?" snapped Hen. "Pigeons are made just for
eating, and we can----"

"Hold this bird, Dan," urged Greg, passing the pigeon to Dalzell and
stepping briskly toward Hen, who, alarmed, retreated, protesting:

"Huh! What are you getting red headed about? Can't you stand a joke?"

"I don't like your style of jokes," retorted Greg, stopping the pursuit.
"Don't let me hear any more of 'em."

"In fact, Hen," added Tom, "your continued silence would be the finest
thing you could do for us."

"See here!" called Dan. "This is one of our own pigeons--right out of
dad's cote. This is the speckled one we call 'Tit-bit.'"

"Say, that seems almost like a letter from home, doesn't it?" asked
Dick, his face beaming. "We'll give our friend the best we have. Put the
little fellow in a box, in some soft stuff, not too close to the fire,
Dan. And I'll start to boil some of the corn meal. That'll make good
food for the little chap when he's feeling more like himself."

In less than half an hour Mr. Pigeon was feeling vastly better. He now
hopped about the place, using his wings every now and then in a short
flight. Dan was the only one who could get near the little creature
now. So it was Dalzell who caught the pigeon and fed it its breakfast of
corn meal mush when it was ready.

Soon after the pigeon took to flying more and more. He seemed attracted
towards the windows, flying straight at them three or four times.

"Your pigeon isn't showing good manners, Dan," teased Tom. "He is
showing as plainly as possible that he doesn't like this crowd."

"Most likely it's Hen he objects to," murmured Dalzell, with a grin.
"But I'll tell you what I think Tit-bit wants. He's warm, fed and feels
as strong as ever. What he wants, now, is to hit up a pace for Gridley
and get back into the cote with his mates."

"How long would it take him to get there?" wondered Tom.

"Why, something like ten or twelve minutes, probably," Dan answered.

"Whee! If we could make it that fast we'd be taking frequent trips,"
sighed Reade.

"I wouldn't make the trip more'n one way. I'd stay in Gridley after I
got there," grumbled Hen, but no one paid any heed to him.

"See here," broke in Dick suddenly, "if that pigeon wants to go home,
and is able to, why can't we make him take a message for us? I believe
we can--if some one at the other end would only see it."

"Dad always looks the birds over when he feeds 'em in the morning," Dan
declared.

"Wait until I get a piece of paper," rejoined Prescott, almost
breathless from the hold the idea had taken on him. He got the paper,
drew out a pencil, and sat down to write, calling off the words as he
wrote them:

"To the home folks. We're all here at the cabin, snug as can be, with
plenty of water, firewood and food, and having a jolly time. Don't worry
about us. We're having a jolly time."

"Tell 'em I'm here," begged Hen Dutcher. "My folks might like to know."

So Dick added that information and signed his name. Next he rolled the
paper up into a cylinder.

"Dan, catch that precious bird of yours," begged the young leader.
Dalzell presently accomplished that purpose. Dick tied a string around
the pigeon's neck, loosely enough not to choke the bird, and yet
securely enough so that the noose could not slip off. Then the paper
cylinder was made fast to the string.

"Open the window on the side towards Gridley, Greg," called Dick. "When
it's open, Dan, you give your pigeon a start."

As Dan let go the bird fluttered from the sill to the snow. Then, after
a moment, little Mr. Pigeon spread his wings and soared skyward. Soon
the boys had seen the last of the small traveler, still headed in the
direction of home.

"Our folks will soon have the news," declared Dan proudly.

"And, oh--hang it!" gasped Dick disgustedly. "I forgot to add even a
word about Mr. Fits!"

"Well, he isn't here with us, at any rate," Dave answered.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICES OF THE NIGHT

"Wow! Wow-ow-ow-oo-whoo-oo-oo!"

It would be impossible to convey the weird sound in words.

Six boys and a whiner were asleep in their bunks in the log cabin when
that awesome sound first smote the air.

Outside the wind had nearly died down. Dick Prescott, the first to
waken, felt a cold chill creep down his spine.

"Wow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!"

"Wh-wh-what is it?" gasped Dan Dalzell, sitting up in his bunk.

"I don't know," Dick admitted.

Again came the fearsome sound, now louder than ever. Dave Darrin and Tom
Reade were now awake and startled.

"What on earth can it be?" demanded Tom.

"It must be Fred Ripley's ghost party," suggested Greg.

"Bosh! Fred Ripley would have to be a real ghost before he could get
over the deep snow in the woods," Dick retorted.

Once more came the sound, more piercing than ever. Dick leaped from his
bunk and began to dress. Dave and Greg followed suit.

"We'll do our best to find out what it is, fellows," Dick promised them.

Hen Dutcher was chattering and half sobbing.

"If I--I ever g-g-get out of this alive," he chattered, "I'll never
stick around y-y-y-you fellows again. I was a f-f-f-fool to let you
fellows coax me into staying here."

"Get out, then!" retorted Tom Reade half savagely, as he landed on the
floor and began to dress. All were soon up except Hen, who, when a more
dismal and bloodcurdling wail than ever came along, hid his head under
one of the overcoats that covered him.

"It's a wild cat--that's what it is," declared Greg Holmes.

"Only one objection to that idea," returned Dick Prescott. "No one has
ever heard of a wild cat in these parts in forty years."

"Then it's some one out perishing in the cold," suggested Dave.

"Whoever might be out in the cold wouldn't have much time to yell like
that about it," argued Dick. "A wayfarer, out in the cold and deep snow
to-night, would soon lie down and freeze to death."

But now something happened that made the blood of all the listeners run
cold.

"Dea-ath sta-a-alks through the for-r-r-rest!" came the wailing chant.

"That must be the Ripley gang," contended Dick.

"But how can it be? How could they get through the deep snow that won't
bear 'em?" Tom wanted to know.

"Then what can it be?"

"Mr. Fits," suggested Harry Hazelton.

"But Fits isn't in the shack, or wasn't," Dave argued. "We haven't seen
him around, outdoors or in the shack, since the night we ordered him to
go there. If Mr. Fits got away from this neighborhood it was simply
impossible for him to get back since then."

"A-a-a-all who he-ear my voi-oi-oice shall die-ie within the
hou-ou-our!" came the wail once more.

"O-o-o-h! Please don't!" screamed Hen Dutcher, burrowing in under the
massed overcoats. "Please spare me! I'll be a good fellow after this!"

"Keep quiet!" ordered Tom, striding over to the bunk and giving Hen
three or four vigorous prods. "If you don't we'll throw you outside!"

"But it's just aw-aw-aw-awful!" chattered the terrified Hen.

Truth to tell, none of the boys were feeling at his best, just then.
Dick's glance passed the face of the clock, showing the hour to be just
midnight.

Had it been possible to travel through the forest, the Grammar School
boys would have felt sure that it was Fred Ripley's crew. Then they
would have gone forth to see what was up. But feeling sure that they
were the only living beings in this part of the forest, it was
impossible to account for the awful sounds that came from without. What
made the wailing sound still more frightful was the fact that it all
seemed a part of the wind that was now rising gradually. And the clearly
uttered, sepulchral words made it all real enough. The wind never talks
in words.

Again came the wailing, though this time without words.

"I never believed there were such things as real ghosts," declared Harry
Hazelton.

"Then you're a fool. Everybody knows that there are ghosts--and they're
fine people that do noble work!" proclaimed chattering Hen from under
the weight of clothing. He was trying to win the favor of the ghosts.

"If there are any ghosts around here I wish one of 'em would pick you up
in a sheet, take you away and drop you in your own home in Gridley,"
declared Tom, becoming decidedly irritated by this babyish imitation of
a boy.

"Oh, please don't say that!" begged Hen piteously. "The ghost might hear
you."

"If he does, and takes Tom's advice," hinted Dave, "we'll soon see it
happen."

That was enough to send thirteen year old Hen burrowing more frantically
than before.

The cabin was warm and bright inside. Dick, while trying to puzzle out
the matter to his satisfaction, carried four more logs to the fire, one
after another, and placed them.

Not one of the Grammar School boys had any desire to go to bed at that
time, save Hen, who wouldn't dare to be anywhere else. In fact, the
Dutcher youngster may have wondered whether he could stand on his feet
if he slipped out and into his clothes.

One by one the boys found seats. Dan picked up the air rifle and sat
with it across his lap.

"Whoever it is that's doing this trick has surely got us going," laughed
Dick uneasily.

"He has," affirmed Dave. "I don't believe in ghosts, but, under the
circumstances, this thing that's annoying us is more than some creepy.
If we could explain it I don't believe we'd let it worry us any. But I
suppose human beings are always most afraid of what they cannot
understand."

The wailings came at less frequent intervals now, though they continued
to be sufficiently awesome. But when the clock showed two minutes before
the hour of one in the morning these words came in a blast:

"The hou-ou-our of de-eath is at hand. The Gr-r-rim Rea-eaper is at the
doo-oor!"

"Then please, please, please--GO AWAY!" screamed Hen, his teeth clacking
a bone solo.

CHAPTER XV

DICK STRIKES A REAL FIND

Then half an hour passed, a quarter-gale of wind making the only sound
that came from outside.

"I think that must have been a sailor's ghost," remarked Prescott, at
last, "and he got his bearings wrong. He said, half an hour ago, that he
was coming in--but he didn't."

"How can you t-t-talk about g-g-g-ghosts like that?" shuddered Dutcher,
whose face was still invisible to the others.

"We might as well go to bed," proposed Dave, using one hand to cover an
imitation yawn that was intended to urge the others to courage.
"Whatever wild spirit was traveling around here has wandered off in some
other direction."

"Don't go to bed," pleaded Hen. "I won't have any one to talk to if all
you fellows go to sleep."

For answer Tom Reade climbed up into his bunk, though he kept his shirt
and trousers on.

"I'll tell you what," offered Dick. "We'll take turns staying up on
guard, just in case something real should happen. The fellow who stays
up will walk back and forth, to be sure of remaining awake. He'll also
see to it that the fire is kept up."

"Who'll take the first watch?" Harry wanted to know.

"Let Hen do it!" came, in the same breath, from Dave, Tom and Greg.

"I--I wouldn't be any good at that," pleaded Dutcher anxiously.

"No," smiled Dick dryly, "I don't believe you would. As I proposed the
guard stunt, I'll take the first dose of my own medicine. Later in the
night I'll call Dave, and when he's through he'll call Tom. All you
fellows pile back into bed and get some sleep."

"You take the air rifle, then," urged Dan, passing it over. As this
rather insignificant weapon might possibly be of some use, in the event
of more definite trouble, Dick accepted it.

One after another the fellows dropped off to sleep, all except Hen, who
lay very still, with heart thumping wildly.

Half an hour after Prescott's tour of guard duty began three wild wails,
wordless, smote the air, one after the other. Dave, Tom and Dan awoke.

"It's all right," Dick called to them, softly. "Nothing but noises.
Don't be afraid but I'll call you if its needed."

So those who had a chance, dozed off. Hen didn't have any chance; his
cowardly soul wasn't made for sleep when there was any danger about.

It was twenty minutes past three when Dick stepped over and nudged Dave
gently, next whispering:

"It's about time for you, now. You call Tom at a little after five, and
then tell him to call us all at seven o'clock."

Dave hurriedly dressed and took the air rifle from Dick, the latter then
getting back into his bunk and soon dropping off in sleep.

"Seven o'clock! All out! Step lively! Change cars for breakfast!" were
the next words that Dick Prescott heard.

By the time that the fellows had dressed, in the warm cabin, and had
started to pry the shutters back, the first dim promise of daylight was
showing in the east. A little later it was broad daylight.

By this time, too, after most of the fellows had slept soundly for
hours, the situation seemed altogether different. Even Dutcher slipped
out of his bunk and began to dress briskly.

"Say," he grinned, "but you fellows were somewhat scared last night."

"Yes," admitted Dave. "Weren't you?"

"Not a bit," asserted Hen bravely. "Sa-ay----"

He paused, looking around him in wonderment, then demanded tartly:

"What on earth are you fellows laughing at?"

"Laughing just to--to think what boobies we were when we had the brave
Hen Dutcher with us to set us a better example," answered Tom Reade
sarcastically. "No use in talking, Hen! You're the only fellow in this
outfit that has any sand."

"Say, you needn't try to get too funny, now," remarked Hen suspiciously.
"You fellows were all so scared that maybe you thought I was as bad as
you. But I was only putting it on, just to see how far you'd all go."

"You must have been satisfied, then," returned Dick grimly, "for we
surely were uneasy."

Hen blandly took to himself all the credit that was offered him for his
"courage," seeing which the Grammar School boys winked slyly one at
another, then busied themselves with the tasks of getting breakfast.

"To-day's programme will be more work, I suppose," began Tom, as the
lads seated themselves around the table.

"As I see it, it will have to be a day of work," Dick nodded. "For that
matter, we're learning that it's no use for boys to go camping,
especially in the winter, unless they're willing to work."

"What's to be done first?" Dave wanted to know.

"Well, we'll need more wood, and more water," Prescott replied.

"As it doesn't make much difference which we do first, I'm for getting
the wood, if that suits the rest of you. Our path of yesterday is blown
over a bit with snow, but we can dig it out again in a little while.
And, while we're at that, we may as well dig through to the cook shack
again. I want to get a good look in there this time."

"Expect to find Mr. Fits there?" Dave asked.

"Hardly, if we didn't find him there yesterday. But, the more I think
about it, the more I feel certain that the noises of last night were in
some way connected with the shack."

"I'd like to believe that," muttered Tom. "If that's the case, some of
us might sleep in there to-night and catch hold of the noise maker."

"Who'd sleep there?" grimaced Dan.

"Well," responded Reade slowly, "we might let Hen sleep there. He's the
bravest of the lot, you know, and so he's just the fellow for the job."

Dutcher choked over the food he was swallowing, and shifted his feet
uneasily.

Soon after breakfast was over Dick, Dave and Tom stepped outside with
the shovels. Here and there the path had been left fairly clear, though
at other points they had to shovel industriously through the new drifts.
At last, however, they reached the same window through which they had
looked in the day before.

"No sign of any one inside," muttered Dick. "Nor have we seen any signs
of fire from the chimney. I can see the stove, now, but there doesn't
seem to be any sign of fire in it."

"Let's dig around to the door," proposed Dave, "and go inside."

Accordingly the three bent to the new work. A few minutes later Dick
gave a tug at the latch-string and the door swung open.

"It doesn't seem as cold in here as you'd expect to find it," murmured
Reade.

"That's because we've just come from where it's a good deal colder," Tom
answered.

Dick stepped over to the cook stove, raising a lid.

"Look, fellows; here are a few live coals left here yet."

Dave and Tom joined him, staring at the embers in some astonishment.

"Yet there's no one here, and no tracks in the snow outside," observed
Tom. "Say, if the tenant of this place can go over the snow without
leaving a trail, it does look rather ghostly, eh?"

"A ghost wouldn't need warmth," Dick retorted promptly.

"Then what's the answer?" challenged Dave.

Dick shook his head, but went to one window after the other.

"No one left or entered here by way of the window," Prescott soon
announced. "It struck me that Mr. Fits might have used a window, instead
of a door, but if so, there'd be tracks under the windows."

"Mr. Fits hasn't been here at all," Dave replied, with a good deal of
positiveness. "When we turned him out into the storm he went somewhere
else."

"Then how about the ghostly noises, and the embers in the stove?" Reade
wanted to know.

"Ask Dick," prompted Dave.

"I can't tell you," laughed Prescott. "I guess you'll have to ask Hen
Dutcher."

"Well, there's no one here but ourselves," Tom went on, as the boys
stood staring about the tiny shack. "As far as finding anything here is
concerned we may as well go about our task of wood gathering."

"I wish we could get at the bottom of the ghost mystery," muttered Dick
wistfully.

"So do I," agreed Reade, "but wishes aren't snow plows, and never were.
Fred Ripley and his cronies would be mean enough to come down here and
spoil our rest at night, but they'd never be brave enough to face the
long trip through the deep snow."

"Well, let's go along and get in the wood," Dick urged. So they went,
and more than an hour was spent in carrying logs into the main cabin. Of
course Greg, Dan and Harry assisted in this, while Hen was put to his
usual morning task of washing dishes and straightening things in the
cabin.

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