eing one log.

"Huh!" grunted Dan, who had not done any of the work. "Getting these
logs is going to be harder work than chopping down young trees."

Whistling, Tom Reade had gone around to the cabin. Now, with a whoop of
glee he returned, bearing a crowbar.

"Found this in one corner of the cabin," he explained. "Now, we'll pry
logs loose in fast order."

His prediction turned out a good one. Within five minutes more than a
dozen of the logs had been loosened and Dick & Co. busied themselves in
carrying the logs around and into the cabin.

"Now, Danny Coldfeet, we'll soon have your flame red medicine ready,"
laughed Dave Darrin jovially. "Get one of the coal oil tins, Danny boy.
Greg, tear off some of the paper to stuff under the logs. Hurry! Then
I'll lay the fire. Tom, you and Harry bring the logs closer."

Some nearly burned bits of log lay in the broad fireplace under the
chimney. Dave bent over to lift these charred bits out. Three or four he
tossed back of him. Then suddenly he stiffened up, sticking a finger in
his mouth.

"Ouch!" he grunted.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom.

"I burned my finger," sighed Dave.

"Burned your finger--in a dead fire?"

But Dick, stirring the burned bits of wood with his shoe, suddenly lay
bare some dull red coals.

"Look-a-here, fellows," hailed Dan in the same moment. "Here's meat and
bread, and part of a can of tomatoes on the table. The bread ain't old
enough to be mouldy."

"Fellows," announced Dick Prescott, moving about, "there's some one
living here--some one besides ourselves!"

CHAPTER VII

THE PROWLER OF THE NIGHT

The six youngsters stood looking curiously at one another.

"I wonder who it can be?" muttered Dan.

"Some one who has no business here, anyway," returned Tom Reade
bluntly.

"I wonder if it's some one who did live here, or some one who thinks
he's going to keep on living here?" asked Dave Darrin dryly.

"Just the same, I'd like to know who has been living here," Dick went
on. "For that matter, who would want to live here, in the depths of the
woods in winter?"

"Well, we do, for one crowd," Greg reminded him.

"Yes; but we're boys with a craze for open air and something different,"
Prescott maintained. "Now, if men have been living here, the case is
different. Men don't care about schoolboy junkets. If the man or men who
have been living here are honest, I don't mind. Such men will move on if
they find that we're here, and