buss. How Phil wished his Winchester were a
flintlock musket just at that moment. But it wasn't, and it didn't have
any pan, and loose powder was not used in connection with it. But there
was plenty of powder encased in its metallic cartridges if only he could
get at it, and could contrive some plan for adapting it to his purpose.

All these ideas passed like a flash, and Phil had hardly thought of
powder before he was examining one of his cartridges, and trying to dig
the bullet out of its metal shell with the point of his knife. But it
was held too tightly, and he only pricked his fingers.

Then another plan came into his mind. He laid his rifle on the ground.
Over its stock he spread a square of cotton cloth, such as he and Serge
were accustomed to tear from the great piece provided among their stores
whenever they needed clean handkerchiefs. On the cloth Phil laid a
cartridge, that he held in position with the sharp edge of his knife
blade, placed so that it would cut just at the base of the bullet. Then
he struck the back of the blade a smart blow with a billet of wood, and
the job was done. He had got at the powder.

He poured out two-thirds of the precious mixture, and rubbed it well
into one side of the cloth, which he doubled twice and used against the
log. Then, after stopping the open end of the shell with a tiny wad of
lint to keep the remainder of the powder from running out, he inserted
it in the chamber of his rifle. Aiming it at the cloth, with the muzzle
about one foot away, and trembling with cold, or excitement, or anxiety,
or with all three, he pulled the trigger.

The report that followed was hardly as loud as that of a small
fire-cracker, but the success of the scheme was instant. The little
flame poured from the muzzle of the rifle into that powder-impregnated
square of cotton cloth ignited it at once. A moment later it was nestled
amid the bundle of twigs and shavings, while Phil, on hands and knees,
was puffing at it like a pair of bellows.

In two minutes more his fire was a certainty, the black shadows were
already beginning to retreat before its cheery attack, and Phil Ryder's
spirits had jumped from zero almost to the figure that represents
light-heartedness.

Throwing off his fur parka, that he might the better appreciate its
warmth later, and seizing a snow-shoe, he cleared the whole space
between the first log and another that lay a few yards beyond. Into this
opening he dragged all