“Why, no, sir; we thought he had gone to your shack.”

“Mr. Hazelton wouldn’t leave horses out in a storm like this one,”
Tom rapped out briskly.  “As a matter of fact he isn’t in camp. 
You men get out lanterns and be ready to go into the woods. 
We’ve got to find Mr. Hazelton at the earliest possible moment!”

Twenty minutes later the beams of light from lanterns carried by the men revealed the form of Harry Hazelton, in the woods and nearly covered with snow.

“Pick him up,” ordered Tom.  “Make the fastest time you can to our shack.”

In the shack the fire was allowed to burn low.  Harry, still unconscious, was stripped and put to bed.

“Anything you want, let us know, sir,” said Tim Walsh, as the men tramped out again.

Then Tom and Ferrers sat down to try to think out the best thing to do for Harry Hazelton.

He was still alive, his pulse going feebly.  He had been briskly rubbed and warmly wrapped, and a quantity of hot, strong coffee forced gently down his throat.

After a while Hazelton came to, but his eyes had a glassy look in them.

“You’re a great one, old fellow, to go out into the snow and get lost,” Tom chided him gently.

“Did—–­I get—–­lost?” Harry asked drowsily.

“Yes.  Here, drink some more of this coffee.  Jim, make a fresh pot.  You can stir the fire up a bit now.”

“I—–­want to sleep,” Harry protested, but Tom forced him to drink more coffee.  Then Hazelton sank into a deep slumber, breathing more heavily.

“He’s all right, now, or will be when he has slept,” declared Jim Ferrers.

“Is he?” retorted Tom, who held one hand against Harry’s flushed face, then ran the fingers down under his chum’s shirt.  “Jim, he’s burning up with fever.  That’s all that ails him!”

Then Tom placed one ear over Hazelton’s heart.

“None too strong,” Reade announced, shifting his head.  “And here’s a wheezy sound in his right lung that I don’t like at all.”

“You don’t suppose it’s pneumonia?” asked Jim gravely.

It was congestion of the right lung that ailed Harry Hazelton.  But Tom knew nothing of that.  Jim Ferrers, who had never been ill in his life, knew even less about sickness.

As for Harry, he lay dangerously ill, with a doctor’s help out of the question!

CHAPTER XX

TOM TURNS DOCTOR

The door opened almost noiselessly.

“Shut that door,” cried Tom, angrily, without looking around.  “Whoever you are, do you know that we have a sick man here”

“Well, the men chased me out of one shack, and wouldn’t let me in the other, and I don’t want to go near the cook,” complained a whining young voice.

It was Alf Drew who uttered the words.

“Shut the door,” Tom repeated.

“May I stay here?” asked Alf, after obeying.