The Grammar School Boys Snowbound | Page 6

going back to his desk.
"Your son said you wished to see us," Prescott continued.
"Yes," said the lawyer, pulling a drawer in his desk open and glancing inside. "Late yesterday afternoon I received a letter from my client, Mrs. Dexter, who directed me to hand you each a new ten-dollar bill, with her best wishes for a Merry Christmas added."
"I am afraid that Mrs. Dexter intends that as a reward for what we were able to do for her last fall," cried Dick, flushing. "We tried to tell her, at the time, that we didn't want any reward and that we wouldn't feel comfortable in taking one."
"Nothing was said in Mrs. Dexter's letter about a reward," replied the lawyer dryly. "She directed me to hand you the banknotes in place of Christmas cards. I suppose you young gentlemen have no objection to receiving Christmas cards?"
Lawyer Ripley took out several banknotes. One of these he now held out to Prescott.
Dick flushed again, looked embarrassed, then reached out his hand slowly and took the money.
"Will you send Mrs. Dexter our thanks, sir, and tell her that we enjoyed the cards very much?"
"Especially the pictures on them," added Dan Dalzell, as he received his banknote.
"I will send all your messages," nodded the lawyer, as he continued the distribution.
"Say--whoop!" suddenly exploded Greg Holmes.
"What's the matter--yours counterfeit?" laughed Dan.
"Say, fellows," Greg went on, "we were wishing we had the funds to build some sort of a camp. We can do it, now, can't we?"
"What kind of camp?" inquired Lawyer Ripley, looking mildly interested. "And for what would you use a camp?"
"Why, for camping, I suppose," confessed Greg.
"You wouldn't live in a tent, at this time of the year, would you?"
"If we had to," assented young Holmes. "What we were talking about was building some kind of a shack in the woods somewhere."
"Rather a bad time of the year for building operations," smiled Lawyer Ripley dryly.
"But this wouldn't be so very much of an operation, sir," urged Greg. "Now that we've sixty dollars between us, we ought to be able to buy enough lumber to put up quite a shanty."
"Yes; and probably have enough money left to pay for the teaming of the lumber a few miles," agreed the man of law. "But there wouldn't be enough to pay the carpenters."
"We might be able to build a small shack ourselves," proposed Tom Reade.
"Why, so you might," admitted the lawyer, half smiling. "However, any task that is worth doing is much better done by one used to that kind of work. When do you want to go camping?"
"Why, right after to-morrow, Christmas," replied Dick. "We could stay in the woods, if our parents let us go, until about the end of the present vacation."
"It would take you at least that length of time to build the shack, I should think," suggested the lawyer. "Until you had it built you might have to wrap up in the snow at night for your sleep. And, then, when you had it all built, you would discover that the shack didn't belong to you, but to the owner of the land on which you built it. He could order you away from the shack if he were so disposed."
"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Greg, looking crestfallen.
"I'm afraid we won't camp," spoke up Harry Hazelton.
"The greatest difficulty," suggested the lawyer, "would be getting the consent of your parents to any such madcap scheme as going off into the woods to camp, day after day, in mid-winter."
"There might be some difficulty about that, sir," replied Prescott. "But now it looks as though the one really big problem would be to get a camp on the money that we now have, and to be ready to go into it in season during this school vacation."
"That would really be but a very slight difficulty," rejoined the lawyer.
"I wish I could see how you make that out, sir."
"Why, as it happens, in the property that Mrs. Dexter's grandfather left her there's the strip called Hobson's woods, you know. The forest is a pretty big affair. In fact, it's what's generally called wild country. But there are a thousand acres of the woods, worth about four dollars an acre, that now belong to Mrs. Dexter. She authorized me to find a buyer for that bit of the forest, but it seems to be out of the question. Now, on Mrs. Dexter's land, in about the middle of it, and less than two hundred feet off the main trail, is one of the few real old log cabins left in this part of the United States. The cabin is in pretty good repair, too, I fancy, for Mrs. Dexter's grandfather used to do logging out that way. Later in his life, when he had amassed money, the old