ency
of the guide left little or no chance for risk of life or limb.

He didn't by any means want to lose life or limb, but he was not at all
unwilling to risk them pretty desperately. And he found no opportunity.
The days were pleasantly taken up with fishing, shooting, moving on,
setting up and taking down camp, and all the expected routine of a
mountain expedition; but, so far, there had been nothing unusual or even
uncomfortable to any great degree.

The next day brought a fearful storm, with gales and sleet and driving
rain and the temperature dropped many degrees.

The party experienced their first really cold weather, and though it
depressed the others Peter seemed to revel in it.

The tent was practically a prison, and an uncomfortable one, for the
wind was terrific and the squalls became hourly more menacing.

Shelby was quiet, by reason of a sore throat, and Blair was quiet with a
silence that was almost sulky.

Not quite though, for irrepressible Peter kept the crowd good-natured,
by the simple process of making jokes and laughing at them himself, so
contagiously, that all were forced to join in.

But at last he tired of that, and announced that he was going to write
letters.

"Do," said Shelby, "and hurry up with them. The postman will be along
any minute now."

Peter grinned, and really set himself to work with paper and pencil.

"I know what you're doing," said Blair; "you're beginning our story."

"I'm not, but that isn't half a bad idea. Let's start in, Gil. We can
plan it and make up names and things----"

"Why can't you really write it?" asked Shelby. "I should think it would
be the psychological moment. Isn't it to be all about the storms and
other indigenous delights of Labrador?"

"You take that tone and I'll pitch you out into the indigenous
delights," threatened Peter. "Come on, Gilbert, let's block out the
backbone of the yarn right now."

They set to work, and by dint of much discussing, disagreeing,
ballyragging and bulldozing each other, they did make a fair start.

"What's the heroine like?" asked Shelby, beginning to be interested.

"Like Carly Harper," said Blair promptly.

"Not the leastest, littlest mite like Carly Harper," said Peter, his
blue eyes hardening with determination.

"Why not?" demanded Blair, who cared little what the heroine was like;
but who objected to contradiction without reason.

"Because I say not," returned Peter, impatiently. "The heroine is a