“A hole, I’d call it,” said Amy.  “Let’s find the door.”

They moved to the right, following the building, and promptly collided with a tree.  They had to go around that, since there was no room to squeeze past it.  Then the hut, for it was evidently no more, presented a doorway, with a door half-open on broken hinges.  They hesitated a moment.

“Wonder what’s inside,” said Clint in a low voice.

“Spooks,” suggested Amy, none too bravely.

“Shut up!  Would you go in?”

“Sure, I would.  Come on.”

Very cautiously they edged past the crazy door, their hands stretched warily ahead.  There was a sudden scurrying sound from the darkness and they jumped back and held their breaths.

“P-probably a rat,” whispered Amy.

“Or a squirrel,” said Clint.  They listened.  All was silent again.  A damp and musty odour pervaded the place.  Under their feet the floor boards had rotted and as they made a cautious circuit of the interior they trod as often on soil as on wood.  The hut was apparently empty of everything save a section of rusted stovepipe, dangling from a hole in the roof, some damp rags and paper in a corner and a broken box.  Clint discovered the box by falling over it with a noise that sent Amy a foot off the ground.  When all was said the advantages presented by the hut were few.  It did protect them from the little chill breeze that stirred and it put a roof over their heads, although, as Clint said, if it rained before morning they’d probably find the roof of little account.  On the other hand, it was damper than the outdoors and the mustiness was far from fragrant.  They decided, however, to take up their quarters there until morning.  Looking for the road was evidently quite useless, and, anyway, they were much too tired to tramp any longer.  They found a place away from door and window where some of the floor-boards still survived and sank down with their backs to the wall.  Amy heaved a great sigh of relief.

“Gee,” he muttered, “this is fine!”

“Pull the blanket up,” murmured Clint with a pathetic effort at humour.  Amy chuckled weakly.

“I can’t reach it,” he said.  “Guess it’s on the floor.  Anyway, the night air is very beneficial.”

“Could you eat anything if you had it, Amy?”

“Shut up, for the love of Mike!  I could eat a kitchen range.  Clint, did I cast any aspersions awhile ago on cold lamb?”

“Uh-huh,” said the other faintly.

“I was afraid so.  I wish I hadn’t now.  A great, big platter of cold lamb would—­would—­Oh, say, I could love it to death!  Gee, but I’m tired!  And sleepy, too.  Aren’t you?”

Clint’s response was a long, contented snore.  Amy grunted.  “I see you’re not,” he murmured.  “Well—­” He pushed himself a little closer to Clint for warmth and closed his eyes.

Many times they stirred and muttered and reached for bedclothes that were not there, but I doubt if either of them once really fully awoke until a sudden glare of light illumined the hut and flashed on their closed eyelids.