s over the party returned with the dead deer
and the wildcat. This caused a delay. As soon as possible the deer were
skinned and cut up, and the meat divided. The boys were given all they
could carry.

Between eight and nine o'clock they were ready to start. They parted
with the friendly loggers, and tramped briskly across the clearing.

"I say, youngsters," Thomson yelled after them, "if you should run
acrost that sneakin' Sparwick, jest show a bold front, an' you'll have
him. He's a coward at heart, an' hates a gun barrel worse than pisen."

CHAPTER XVIII.

HAMP'S PERIL.

Neither Brick nor his companions expected to overtake Kyle Sgarwick.
They knew that what Thomson said was true. The thief was many hours
ahead, and possessed an intricate knowledge of the wilderness.

"I'll have to let the watch go," said Brick, in a resigned tone. "I
hated to lose it, because it was a present from my father."

"We may recover it at some pawnshop in Bangor, when we go back," replied
Jerry.

This cheered Brick up a little, and the conversation turned on brighter
topics. For mile after mile the boys tramped steadily down the
Mallowgash. The air was bitterly cold, but not sufficient to freeze the
dashing current and tumbling waves.

"We ought to be near Chesumcook," said Hamp, at length.

"We are," replied Jerry. "The logging camp is a good four miles behind
us. Pretty soon we'll get a view of the lake."

"And what then?" asked Brick.

"Well, I guess the best plan will be to get across the Mallowgash, and
push up this side of Chesumcook until we strike a good camping-place."

"That's just the thing," assented Hamp. "Come on. Let's walk faster."

Accordingly the boys quickened their pace. The roaring of the near-by
stream drowned the slight crunching of the snowshoes and sleds.

At length they reached a bit of a clearing that faced the Mallowgash.
Here they paused, startled and pleased by the strange sight that met
their gaze.

In the center of the stream was a submerged tree, drifted there by some
powerful flood. Only its upper limbs projected from the water. Caught in
these was a partly sunken boat. Its bottom had evidently been impaled on
one of the sharp, spiky branches. In the precarious and slanting
front-end of the craft stood Kyle Sparwick.

The rascal was naked, and in one hand he held his clothes, rolled
tightly into a pack. His back was towar