It was as dry as a bone, and not a
particle of tobacco was left there. He believed that it had not
been used for at least a year. Doubtless the Indian who had
built this hunting lodge had fallen in some foray, and the secret
of it had been lost until Henry Ware, seeking through the cold
and rain, had stumbled upon it.
It was nothing but a dilapidated little lodge of poles and bark,
all a-leak, but the materials of a house were there, and Henry
was strong and skillful. He covered the holes in tile roof with
fallen pieces of bark, laying heavy pieces of wood across them to
hold them in place. Then he lifted the bark shutter into
position and closed the door. Some drops of rain still came in
through the roof, but they were not many, and he would not mind
them for the present. Then he opened the door and began his
hardest task.
He intended to build a fire on the flat stones, and, securing
fallen wood, he stripped off the bark and cut splinters from the
inside. It was slow work and he was very cold, his wet feet
sending chills through him, but be persevered, and the little
heap of dry splinters grew to a respectable size. Then he cut
larger pieces, laying them on one side while he worked with his
flint and steel on the splinters.
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