He started off with great confidence, but the end of his shoe caught on the almost concealed edge of a stump, sending the long-legged youth floundering in the snow.

"Hi, hi! You struck something sure, 'Hatchet,'" exclaimed Tom, mischievously.

Hackett's face was very red, indeed, when he picked himself up.

"Talk about mean luck," he growled. "Quit your laughing, Tommy Clifton. Just watch me, I'll do better this time."

Hackett took the lead. Right after him came Dave Brandon, while Bob Somers and Nat Wingate trailed in the rear, all moving in an awkward fashion. But at length they mastered the new form of locomotion sufficiently well to make good progress.

"My eye! look at that whopping big long-ears over there," cried Hackett; "if I'd only had my gun in hand," he added, regretfully, as the bunny disappeared.

Nat improvised these lines, his old-time spirit reasserting itself.

"Rah, rah—yi, yi—bing, bang, boom!" joined in Hackett, lustily. "And I'm going to get some game, too. Don't you forget it."

Soon a stretch of pine woods was reached. It grew thicker and thicker, until the blue sky was almost shut from view. Underbrush and trailing vines were in profusion.

The wind had piled up great drifts of snow, and occasionally the heavy sleds had to be dragged around a fallen tree.

From a dense thicket came the harsh, rasping cry of the blue jay, while a noisy flock of crows flitted among the trees.

In places, the snow was covered with the tracks of animals and birds.

"There have been dozens of rabbits around here," asserted Bob. "And look—sure as I live—the trail of a fox."

"A fox?" echoed the others. "How do you know?"

"Because the footprints are almost in a straight line, and you can see the marks of the claws in front."

"My eye! I only wish I could get a shot at him," burst out Hackett, looking eagerly around, as if he expected to see a dozen foxes running to cover.

"Thought nothing would satisfy you but a wildcat or deer, Hacky," laughed Nat.

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