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.