As Uncle Bill Griswold came breathless from the raging whiteness outside with an armful of bark and wood, the two long icicles hanging from the ends of his mustache made him look like an industrious walrus. He drew the fuel beside the tiny, sheet-iron camp stove, and tied fast the flap of the canvas tent.
"We're in a jack-pot, all right."
He delivered the commonplace pronunciamento in a tone which would have conveyed much to a mountain man. To Mr. Sprudell it meant only that he might expect further annoyance. He demanded querulously: "Did you find my shirt?"
Uncle Bill rolled his eyes with a droll grimace of despair toward the mound of blankets in the corner whence came the muffled voice. The innocence of a dude was almost pitiful. He answered dryly: "I wouldn't swear to it--I wouldn't go so far as to make my affadavvy to it, but I think I seen your shirt wavin' from a p'int a rock about seventy mile to the south'ard--over t'ward the Thunder Mountain country."
"Gone?"
"Gone"--mournfully--"where the woodbine twineth."
"And my trousers?"
"Where the wangdoodle mourneth fer his lost love. Blowed off. I got your union suit out'n the top of a pine tree. You've no more pants than a rabbit, feller. Everything went when the guy-ropes busted--I warned you to sleep in your clothes."
"But what'll I do?" Sprudell quavered.
"Nothin'." His tone was as dry as punk. "You kin jest as well die in them pink pajammers as anything else."
"Huh?" excitedly. The mound began to heave.
"I say we're in for it. There's a feel in the air like what the Injuns call 'The White Death.' It hurt my lungs like I was breathin' darnin' needles when I cut this wood. The drifts is ten feet high and gittin' higher." Laconically: "The horses have quit us; we're afoot."
"Is that so? Well, we've got to get out of here--I refuse to put in another such night. Lie still!" he commanded ferociously. "You're letting in a lot of cold air. Quit rampin' round!" From which it may be gathered that Mr. Sprudell, for purposes of warmth and protection, was sleeping with the Chinese cook.
"Three in a bed is crowded," Uncle Bill admitted, with a grin. "To-night you might try settin' up."
A head of tousled white hair appeared above the edge of the blankets, then a pair of gleaming eyes. "I propose to get out of here to-day," Mr. Sprudell announced, with hauteur.
"Indeed?" inquired Uncle Bill calmly. "Where do you aim to go?"
"I'm going back to Ore City--on foot, if need be--I'll walk!"