“Perhaps some one who’s thinking of using the old shanty as headquarters while trapping this season,” Hugh replied.  “You know Ralph Kenyon used to take quite a lot of pelts around this region before he joined the scouts and changed his mind about that sort of thing.”

“Then you don’t think it could be a hobo?” queried Bud with a relieved vein in his voice.

“Well, tramps nearly always stick close to the railroads, you know,” the other observed with the air of one who had made it a point to take note of such happenings; “and besides, what hobo would think of wandering away up here so far from a base of supplies?  But we can settle all that easy enough, Bud.”

“By going on and breaking in on him, you mean?” questioned the other eagerly.

“Yes, though perhaps first of all we’d do well to creep up and take a look in at that opening.  A scout should be sure of his ground before he takes a leap.  It isn’t always so easy to go back again.”

“All right, Hugh, let’s start right in and have a squint at him.  Seems to me I get a whiff of cooking, don’t you?”

“Yes, I noticed that, Bud; and also that he’s got a fire burning in there.  You can see it flicker, and that wouldn’t happen if the light came from a lantern, or even from a torch.”

“Smells good, too.  That fellow knows how to cook, whoever he is,” remarked the other scout, sniffing eagerly at the air as he spoke.  Hours had passed since dinner-time and they had had a hard tramp.

They advanced quickly though cautiously.  Their hearts were beating faster than usual, perhaps because they had been carrying heavy loads.  Then again there was a chance that the moment’s excitement had considerable to do with the quickening of their pulses.

Arriving alongside the wall of the lonely cabin that had been built many years before by a man who meant to start a farm up in this region, the boys hastened to glue their eyes to the opening.

What they saw astonished them and at the same time relieved their feelings.  There was but a single occupant of the cabin, and he a boy about their own age, also dressed in the khaki uniform of a scout.  He was busily engaged in cooking some supper, and apparently did not suspect the presence of any one near by.

“Why, it’s Ralph Kenyon!” gasped Bud.  “Whatever can he be doing all by himself up here?”

Hugh could give a guess.  He knew that in times past the young chap in question had made it a practice to trap the little wild animals that might still be found in the woods and swamps of that region, for the sake of the money he could get for their fine furry pelts.  This was before he joined the scouts, which was soon after valuable ore had been discovered on the Kenyon farm and a strip of land sold to the railroad, these transactions placing the family on a secure financial foundation.

Evidently as the cold weather came on, Ralph had been tempted to wander over to his old stamping-grounds, not to set traps as of yore or shoot any of the timid woods’ animals for the sake of their warm coats, but just to revive old recollections.