Thus, two days after their meeting in the barn, on a cold, clear day in the early part of January, seven boys, attired in suitable fashion to withstand the rigorous climate, met at the Kingswood railroad station. They presented a very formidable appearance, Bob Somers and John Hackett carrying repeating rifles and the others shotguns. "Did you get our stuff off to Stony Creek all right, Steve?" inquired Nat Wingate of the ticket agent. "Sure thing! Where are you fellows bound for now?" "To the woods," replied John Hackett; "and we are going to do some tall shooting." "You will, at any rate," said the agent, with a grin, as he surveyed Hackett's long figure. "When a wildcat comes over to say how-de-do, them legs of yourn ought to be mighty useful. Here comes number ten, right on the minute." A whistle sounded, the train rounded a curve, and, in a few minutes more, the boys had clambered aboard. "If anybody had told me about this last week, I wouldn't have believed it," said Sam, in great glee, settling himself comfortably in a seat. "Eh, Dave?" The stout boy nodded, and closed his eyes. "I'm going to make up now for all that hard work I did at the fire," he said with a laugh. The train sped on, past snow-covered fields and rolling hills, over trestles, allowing momentary glimpses of ice-bound creeks, or ravines, purple and gray in the morning shadows. At various towns, the train came to a halt. Several were manufacturing centres, where smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and jets of steam rivaled in their whiteness the dazzling snow. But the distances between these stopping places grew longer and longer, and when, at length, the conductor called out, "Stony Creek," the last town had been left miles behind. "Wake up, Chubby!" cried Bob, giving the stout boy a vigorous shove. "Here's where we get off." Dave stretched, yawned and rose to his feet just as the cars came to a stop. "It doesn't look as if we were anywhere," he said. "We'll have to get up a searching party and try to find the town," said Nat.
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