oreroom
of ours. It's snug and warm, and there's a lot of room in it, and we
can put a stove into it and--" But the rest of Bates's suggestion was
drowned in a round of applause.

"And _I've_ been thinking, just a little," put in Skid Thomson, "and
if I've figured correct, next Thursday's Thanksgiving--don't know as
I've thought of it in ten years--and if we stir round sharp we can get
things ready by then, and--well, 'twouldn't hurt Beetle Ring to
celebrate for once--" But Skid was also interrupted by a cheer.

"And it's my firm belief," reflected Bates with an air of profound
conviction, "that that baby of Bennett's was designed special and, as
you might say, providential, for to be Beetle Ring's mascot. Fat Pine
and Horseshoe have 'em--mascots--to bring luck, and I've noticed
Beetle Ring ain't had the luck lately it should have."

Bates paused, and the camp meditated in silent delight.

Thanksgiving morning was a cold one, but clear. More snow had fallen,
and the deep, feathery whiteness stretched away until lost in the dark
background of the pines and spruces. A wavering line of smoke rose
over the roof of the little old shack in the woods.

Bennett was winding rags round the armpieces of the rough crutches. He
had dragged in some short limbs the day before for fuel, but in so
doing had broken open the wound, which gave him excruciating pain.

"Joe," said his wife, suddenly, "where are you going?"

"I'm going to try for help, Nan. We're out of nigh everything, and my
foot no better."

"You can't do it, Joe. You--you'll die, if you try, Joe, alone in the
woods. Oh, Joe!"

The look of hope that had never wholly left the woman's eyes was
slowly fading out.

"We'll all die if I don't try, Nannie. I'm--"

"Huh!" suddenly exclaimed the old woman, peering out of the little
window. "Heap men, heap horses! Look, see 'em come!"

Bennett turned hastily, and saw a long line of stalwart men and sturdy
horses threshing resolutely through the deep snow and heading directly
for the shack. He looked keenly at the men, and his face paled a
little, but he said steadily, "It's the Beetle Ring men, Nan."

His wife gave a sharp cry. "It's the horse, Joe! It's the horse!
They're after you, Joe, sure!" She caught her husband's arm.

The men were now filling up the little space before the shack.
Directly there came a sounding knock. Bennett opened the door to admit
the burly frame of Posey Breem. He said quietly:

"I'm he