little rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired doll. She has blue eyes,--something
like mine,--and a saucy, turn-up nose, and a dimple in her left cheek."

"A peach," said Shelby, "but no sort of a heroine for that yarn you two
fellows are spinning. I'm no author, but I'm an architect, and I can see
the incongruity."

"If you know so much, write it yourself," said Peter, but not pettishly.
"If I'm doing it, I create my own heroine or I quit."

"Oh, don't quit," begged Blair. "We're just getting a good start. Have
the treacle and taffy heroine if you like, only keep on."

His point won, Peter did keep on, and a fair bit of work was
accomplished. For the first time it began to seem as if the two authors
would really produce something worth while.

"Not likely," Peter said, as they talked this over. "I'm no sort of a
collaborator,--I'm too set in my ways. If I can't have it the way I want
it, I can't do it at all."

"But you can have your own way in details," said Blair, musingly. "They
don't matter much. Give me the swing of the plot and let me plan the
climaxes, and I care not who makes the laws for the heroine's
complexion."

"Well, I'm for a run in the rain," said Peter. "I've worked my brain
into a tangled snarl, and I must go out and clear it out."

He shook himself into his storm togs, and as no one cared to go with
him, he started off alone.

CHAPTER III

The Snowstorm

Given three good-natured young men, a satisfactory guide, a stretch of
Labrador wild, and no cares of any sort, it is not surprising that the
happy days and weeks followed one another into the maw of Time, until
the date of departure for home drew near.

"I'd like to stay here forever," declared Blair, as he filled his pipe
and stretched luxuriously before the fire. "Civilization has lost all
charm for me."

"Go away with you!" scoffed Peter Boots, "that's a fine, ambitious
spirit to show, and you a rising young author,--or about to become one."

"Not unless you duff in and help, old chap. Our book hangs on your
efforts, I've pretty well done my part of it."

"And I'll do mine, don't worry. I'm a procrastinator and a put-offer,
but I'll get there! Now, cut out the book till we get home. These last
few days up here must be given over to Nature as she is snowed under!"

It was the last week in September, but snow-squalls were frequent,
winds were high and rains were cold and sleety.

Joshua had been urging the homeward journey for s