You men get out lanterns and be ready to go into the woods.
We've got to find Mr. Hazelton at the earliest possible moment!"
Twenty minutes later the beams of light from lanterns carried
by the men revealed the form of Harry Hazelton, in the woods and
nearly covered with snow.
"Pick him up," ordered Tom. "Make the fastest time you can to
our shack."
In the shack the fire was allowed to burn low. Harry, still unconscious,
was stripped and put to bed.
"Anything you want, let us know, sir," said Tim Walsh, as the men
tramped out again.
Then Tom and Ferrers sat down to try to think out the best thing
to do for Harry Hazelton.
He was still alive, his pulse going feebly. He had been briskly
rubbed and warmly wrapped, and a quantity of hot, strong coffee
forced gently down his throat.
After a while Hazelton came to, but his eyes had a glassy look
in them.
"You're a great one, old fellow, to go out into the snow and get
lost," Tom chided him gently.
"Did---I get---lost?" Harry asked drowsily.
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